


Temperance and the Tower

by ryn_and_ras



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 122,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryn_and_ras/pseuds/ryn_and_ras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, psychological horror. After escaping from the clutches of Gellert Grindelwald, Hermione is sent to Hogwarts to recover from the loss of her parents. There, she encounters an annoying Prefect who she would rather avoid. However he has something she needs to protect at all costs, for the sake of the wizarding world. TRIGGER WARNINGS APPLY.</p><p>NOTE: This fic has been discontinued. It is now titled "Death and the World" under the user rynthewin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Note: Most trigger warnings apply for this fanfiction. Implied underage non-con, abuse, graphic violence & gore, intensely dark elements. If you don’t have a strong stomach, don’t read it. This is rated MA for a reason, and you have been warned.**  
  
Chapter 1  
  
 _They came for them in the dead of night, around probably three o’clock in the morning, a time when very few were awake. Certainly none in Hermione’s house were until the very moment the door blew from its hinges to slam against the opposite wall, and the men, shrouded in cloaks as dark and gray as an oncoming storm, rushed in._  
  
 _Her father was down the stairs first, followed by her mother, and then she herself arrived last at the scene. By the time she was at the bottom step she heard her father’s screams, caught the barest glimpse of him as he fell, writhing under the tallest man’s wand. Her mother turned and began to usher her back up, whispering harshly for her to hide, to find the emergency portkey to her Uncle’s house in the old jewelry box on her dresser. They’d known this was coming, really, but knowing is indeed an entirely different thing from experiencing it first-hand, and as prepared as they had claimed to be, all of those little attempts served no better purpose in the middle of an attack headed by some of Grindelwald’s most prized wizards. Even if Hermione had made it back up the stairs, the portkey would have been useless anyway, as she could feel the wards that had been placed around the house.  
_  
 _It was so sudden. One moment her mother was screaming, demanding them to stop, and the next she knew she found herself stuck in place, trying to rip her foot from where it had suddenly sank into the floor. In the next moment she was on her back, a wand at her throat as sharp, pale blue eyes locked with hers._  
  
 _Hermione didn’t know she could scream so loudly until that very moment. The aching noise seemed to tear at her lungs on its way out, burning in the back of her throat even as the cruciatus snapped and fired through her every nerve. It felt like forever, that she kicked and shook, convulsing beneath her attacker, before the pain ceased and she was left sobbing quietly on the carpet. She glanced to her left and she met the dead, lifeless eyes of her mother. The other had gotten rid of the  “filth” as they called her, and she hadn’t even noticed, so caught up as she was in her own agony._  
  
 _She tried to sit up, and reach for the wand that had fallen from numb fingers as she spasmed, but a heavy hand came slamming down upon her wrist, and she felt it crack beneath the force of the blow as it was snapped back against the floor, clenched to the point of bruising in the man’s viselike grasp. Before she had the time to be shocked at this action, she caught sight of one of them dragging her father out the door by one foot, his body trailing lifelessly across the floor behind him. She screamed, and tried to get up to get him back, but her attacker kicked her forcefully in the side and she groaned and fell back onto the floor again._  
  
 _“We’re going to have fun, aren’t we?” he asked, his face seeming to crack open in a wide, yellowed smile that drew bile to the back of her throat. She saw him draw a knife from his belt, and he played with it between his fingers, kicking or pushing her back down again each time she tried to fight her way from beneath him._  
  
 _“It’s such a Muggle way,” he said, but this didn’t seem to deter him any more as he lowered it, slicing his way across her nightgown, “but it’s so much more personal than a wand, don’t you think, love?”_  
  
 _There was nothing left. They’d killed her mother, and taken her father--but she found herself not giving up, but filled with fire. She snarled at him even as he cut through her clothes, fighting with every ounce of strength that she had left._  
  
 _It wasn’t enough to stop him, as the blade drew a trail of red down the.center of her stomach, lazily drifting down across her inner thigh, just lightly enough not to nick an artery, but enough to make her feel the pain. She refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it, and she fought as much as she could, something in her gripping on as her world spiraled out of control._  
  
 _She could barely remember what followed, save that it hurt more than anything she had ever dreamed herself capable of comprehending at the age of fifteen. Her thoughts were a mess of flailing limbs, skin on skin, and blood, blood everywhere. It felt like the blade was everywhere all at once. Tears leaked out of her eyes even as she snarled soundlessly at him. Her nightgown lay in tatters on the floor, amid a slowly-spreading pool of blood as he carved graffiti in red across every available surface except her face, like her body was his own personal canvas._  
  
 _She hated him. Hated him more in that moment than she had ever wished to hate, and she memorized his features to memory--promising herself that she would survive, she would get out, and she would kill this man, she would cut out his sea-blue eyes, for what he was doing to her._  
  
 _If she could only just reach, or roll over, she could get her wand. She knew, without looking, where it was, calling to her to use it and escape this hell. She waited, something desperate and predatory growing inside her even as he tore her to pieces. That small little window of opportunity would come, she thought as a sort of cool, inner calm descended. She was ice. She would keep calm, and she would wait. She would get it, and take, it, and he would die._  
  
 _He grunted, rising to his haunches, and she knew it was now, or death. She spun over, wrist be damned, and grabbed her wand. His eyes went wider than she thought physically possible, as the spell exploded against his abdomen, and a mess of blood and gore spattered across the once-pristine persian carpet that she and her mother had spent weeks picking out to suit the room, years ago. He fell over her, clutching his abdomen in agony as he attempted to keep his insides_ inside _. Furious, she blasted him again, and at that close of range he physically was flung off of her, landing with a dull thud some feet away, eyes wide and staring._  
  
 _She had no idea how she stood up or how she found the strength to stagger to her feet, scrambling her way in behind the couch as best she could until her fingers found the edges of the small wooden compartment there, pressing it in. At first it didn’t budge, and all she could think was come on come on COME ON OH GOD MOVE, and finally, the slats fell inward and she scrambled her way into the small, cramped hiding space, pushing it shut behind her even as she curled, naked and bleeding, in her little hiding place, crying quietly._  
  
 _She heard two sets of footsteps, and her mouth went dry. She licked her lips, barely breathing as the thought came to her, ‘oh god they’ll find me’, repeating in her head like a desperate mantra, as if the very act of thinking it would keep it from happening._  
  
 _The angered shouts of the men’s voices rose, and she clutched her hands tightly over her ears, fingers digging into her skull as she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to scream even as she shut the sounds from her mind._  
  
 _“Girlie? Where are you, sweetheart?” asked one tauntingly, and she could just imagine him pacing slowly around the room as his footsteps drew level with her hiding place, then, slowly, passed on by. And slowly, oh so slowly, they moved away, fading into other parts of the house. If she could dare, she would have sobbed out of relief._  
  
 _She was dead quiet for hours, long after they had left. The light of a soft summer sunrise filtered through the windows, by the time she ventured from her hiding place. She found herself staring down at the floor dully at the blood that coated the inside of her legs and torso, shocked that the trail of it seemed to have disappeared, from the scene of violence to her hiding place._  
  
 _She knew she needed to heal herself, or she’d die at this rate. She had medical knowledge from reading, but never had to use it. Distantly she remembered the little medical kit that her father always kept in the kitchen, just in case. Sluggishly stumbling to the room, her feet slipping in her own blood upon the wooden floor, she dug through the cupboard beside the stove, sobbing brokenly as her fingers finally closed around the handle. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start, and some small sliver of hope was all she needed, to keep moving, to keep alive._  
  
 _Unstopping a bottle of dittany, she loosely managed to snag one of the drying rags from the sink, dipping the bottle down over the cloth and padding her wounds with the mixture. The tears came fresh and full, then, and she cried until she could barely work up the strength to do even that much, but by the time she had reached the bottom of the bottle of dittany, the worst of her injuries were scarred over. Something hurt, deep in her stomach, but she didn’t think that would heal so easily. Shuddering, she downed two blood replenishing potions before she began the daunting task of dragging herself up the stairs to the bathroom, and cleaning the blood and gore from her body._  
  
 _The trip up the stairs was less her walking up them and more hauling herself hand over hand, grabbing onto the banister for support with each shaking step. She barely felt the cold chill of the bathwater as it rushed over her. Though her nerves screamed with each motion, her body had long since descended into a state of static numbness._  
  
 _She stayed in the bath for a while, unable to gather the strength to get out again, sitting in the darkened bathwater. She slipped into unconsciousness at some point, only awakening as her head slipped beneath the water and resurfacing with a choking cough as the sick, cloying taste of copper filled her mouth._  
  
 _By then she had enough tentative strength to remember and get up. She knew what they had come for, and if she could prevent them from getting it...tt was enough. Enough to get her up and teetering out of the bathroom, and to her room. She didn’t think, as she grabbed up what clothes she could think to bring, stuffing them hastily into her enchanted bag that had made her father so proud, not caring about mismatched socks that her mother would have scolded her for, or whether her skirt had been from the dirty laundry or not as she hastily pulled a pair of thick woolen stockings over her feet. As many clothes as she could gather into the bag were quickly followed by all her bedsheets as she ripped them from the mattress, two pairs of shoes and every sweater and coat in her closet. Wrapping a scarf tightly over her head and shrugging into the last coat, she stuffed one last item into her bag; an old, well-loved teddy bear, its fur knotted and grayed with age. She thrust it into her bag, desperate to hold it and sob but knowing if she did then she’d never stop, never manage to leave the room before they came back._  
  
 _She went to her parent’s room, thinking that if she could get the portkey that had been hidden there, then she could use it once she was outside of the wards. However, she saw immediately as she shuffled in that they had ransacked the jewelry box, and the silver ring was warped and destroyed on the floor nearby. She stifled back another sob that wanted to escape at the prospect of just what she would have to do to get to safety. But she bit it back, turned around, and left the room._  
  
 _Racing down the stairs as much as she was capable, grabbing a photo frame off the wall as she went, she reached her father’s study. It was ransacked, but it was hurried and messy, and it seemed they hadn’t found the compartment behind the bookshelf where her father’s most jealously-guarded research was stowed. She pushed the hidden latch  and it clicked softly open, revealing his neatly assorted papers and books._  
  
 _She dumped them, without ceremony, as fast as possible into her bag. She felt it full-force then, the slowly rising panic at the thought that they would come back soon. And she needed to raid the kitchen before she hid again. She shut the compartment, vindictively satisfied. They may have taken her father, taken her mother’s life, taken any last vestige of her innocence, but they would_ never _have the information they were seeking..._

***

  
Hermione startled awake with a gasp, her hand instantly reaching for her wand under her pillow, her eyes piercing into the dark. When she realized where she was, she laid back down with a pained sob at the remembered horrors of nearly a year and a half previous. But her eyes dried quickly, as they always did after a particularly unpleasant nightmare.  
  
The past fourteen months had been Hell, fully realized in her waking hours just as much as those spent in fitful dreams, but at least now she was waking up in a bed rather than on the cold ground.  
  
The stark white walls seemed to stretch endlessly, like a field of snow clouding her vision and deafening all sound. For once, the room was empty, and she was so relieved not to awaken to find her uncle seated by her bedside, or her aunt knitting over in that chair by the window and trying to pretend like she wasn’t watching her from the corner of her eye every time she looked away, just waiting for her to break down in a panic for yet another time that day. And as much as it all shamed her, sometimes she couldn’t stop the intrusive thoughts, needling at her skull and spinning out of control. They’d try to grasp her hand or hold her, and she’d just scream, desperate for the touch and closeness to stop or she’d suffocate in the memories.  
  
But, for now, she was calm.  
  
It had taken three months, to reach the point where she could bring herself to speak, though her words were short, clipped off at the ends when she sank back into her head. She knew she could speak, but it was like a wad of cotton had been shoved down her throat, as if the very thought of speaking was too dangerous to bear.  
  
 _Make any noise and they’ll find you..._ Considering that, many times a choice between silence or capture, it had been, it wasn’t much of a surprise that she found that words were less forthcoming save in the most simple of formations, and she could barely hold the gaze of another for more than a few split seconds before looking away, but even this much was a great improvement from the day she had first arrived.  
  
But not being able to speak didn’t mean that she couldn’t listen, and listen she did. She had been a brash sort of girl before, perceptive but naive. Not anymore. She soaked in everything she could hear, settling it in to contemplate over at another time.  
  
Lately, she heard a lot of people discussing her discharge from the hospital, and apparently today was the day. Not that she was ready to leave, really; not that she was ready to be anywhere, do anything at all. She wasn’t prepared, for life, again. Not yet.  
  
  
And her auntie had been unusually chipper since the news, as if once they got Hermione “home” then she would magically be cured of this...internal deadness, a lead weight on her soul. But this knowledge didn’t stop them from carting her off, and her aunt and uncle from apparating her back to the family home, quick as you please thank you very much.  
  
Standing outside the Dagworth-Granger townhouse in a new, stiff dress with an itchy collar and Mary Janes and stockings that she never would have picked out herself, she never felt so out of touch with reality or surreal in her life. This wasn’t her. The outside should reflect the inside.  
  
“Right this way, dear, we’ve prepared your room in advance...I hope it’s to your liking,” her auntie simpered, patting her shoulder lightly. She flinched, and the motion was greeted with a deep frown from her aunt that disappeared as quickly as it had come into being, and she flounced down the hall to an open door.  
  
It was...pink. And lavender. And every other pastel color possibility. Her old room had been in dark blues and greens and rich, earthen browns from the wood. Well...at least it was one small comfort, she supposed, that it didn’t remind her of home in any sense of the word.  
  
“Thank you, Auntie,” she choked out tonelessly, knowing it would appease her. Short as her words were, they brought a wide smile to her aunt’s lips, and she puttered about the room, chattering aimlessly as she went about showing Hermione all the new things that had been bought for her. It might as well have been pig latin for all she understood of it, not that she cared to listen. The world, sometimes, felt like she was separated from it, muffled and jumbled, but it would pass away just as it had come. She was too focused on the family photograph that had been neatly placed in a fresh new frame on the bedstand. _They had been into her things._  
  
And she wanted her _gone_ then, for touching what was hers. What she had guarded jealously for the past year, the only thing pushing her to keep walking forward. And she wanted to let it out, scream and rage, but she just stood there, staring at the picture with the only evidence of her fury being the fire in her eyes. Her uncle seemed to note her discontent then, and ushered his wife out with a short, “I’m sure Hermione will find all the things you got for her, dear, why don’t you go see that the elves are making dinner to specification?”  
  
“Oh goodness me I’d nearly forgotten! We’re having steak and kidney pie tonight, you like that don’t you? I remember you used to always ask for it whenever you got the chance.” With a polite smile, Aunt Edmina swept from the room with perfect haste, not so quickly as to seem impolite but not so slowly as to seem to dawdle.  
  
Redgemond Dagworth-Granger cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I must apologize for my wife, she is only doing what she thinks will help you settle in.”  
  
“I know,” she said, unable to say more. But it was enough, at least for her uncle.  
  
Redge nodded at this, the movement stiff and courteous, before he broke a tentative smile. “I thought you might appreciate this, a bit more.” He dug through the pocket of his vest then, and drew out a silver pendant on a long chain, a series of small opals inlaid into its surface at the center. “Been in the family for years, it has, just sitting in the vault. I thought you might find more use for it.”  
Hermione reached out for it, not terribly pleased at the prospect of jewelry, but upon touching it felt it’s protective qualities. Her eyes widened, and the most expression her uncle had seen since her return to Britain spread across Herminoe’s face as she clutched it in both hands, running her thumbs over the runes formed between the pattern of opals. “Aramaic?”  
  
“Yes well, you would know better than myself, but I’m told it’s quite powerful. I hope it is enough to help put your mind at ease, at least here in our presence. I’m glad you’re pleased with it,” he said, as she’d actually asked a question rather than just duly reacting.  
  
“How old is it?”  
  
“Old as our name, dear. Old as our name.” Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Is there anything at all that I can do, to help make you more comfortable, in our home? I know we are a rather...stiff, sort, compared to what you are used to.”  
  
“No,” she said, and she wanted to add that it was fine, but the cotton was back and she couldn’t get it out. She just stared at the pendant in her hands, unable to look at her uncle anymore.  
  
“Yes well, um. Right. If there’s anything at all we can get you, just call for Whimsy and she will fetch us straight away if she can’t help you herself. If you need to approach me directly, the door to my study is just down the hall.”  
  
She nodded, knowing this already, and it was stiff. She heard his dragonhide shoes against the floor, and when it was gone she breathed a small sigh of relief. She closed the door wandlessly, having picked up some small skills in her time getting to Britain out of desperation. Germany, Belgium, France...they were all ugly, in wartime. She could remember many days spent in the countryside, though, that had once been happy. Still, like most other things before... _before,_ they were vague thoughts.  
  
Without anything better to do, she sat down on her bed, and, much like at the hospital, she just sort of faded out, letting it pass by. The numbness was better than remembering. She didn’t break from her meditative stupor until the house elf designated as ‘Whimsy’ appeared in the room with a loud, ear-splitting ‘CRACK’.  
  
And Hermione raced for her wand, up and armed in less than a second, her eyes blazing and a spell half-formed on her lips even as the house-elf threw her hands up in fear, before falling to the floor and cowering, hands clasped over her long, floppy ears.  
  
Hermione lowered her wand even as the small elf began to sob profusely. “Whimsy is SO SORRY Miss, Whimsy did not mean to be scaring yous. I has been bad, I is being sorry!” Just as the elf was about to bash her head against the floor in punishment, Hermione leaped over the bed, grabbing her hands and holding her steady. It was the sharpest movement she’d made in a while, and her scars protested, which she purposely ignored.  
  
“No no, don’t do that, it’s okay!” she said hurriedly, shocked that she managed to say even that much, but desperate measures were required. She released the elf the very instant she was able, her hands falling flat to her sides as she shivered slightly. “Just...knock, next time. No apparitions?”  
  
“None,” Whimsy said desperately, gesturing wildly with her hands. “Whimsy will always walk from now on for Miss,” she insisted, clasping her rather stubby fingers together tightly.  
  
Hermione nodded, exhausted already and she hadn’t even survived dinner yet. It was with more than great reluctance that she headed down the stairs to the dining room, ready for come what may. 

***

  
Dinner was the worst. The muffled sounds of forks scraping over plates as they ate was the only noise that broke past the dead quiet that seemed to hang from every corner of the room slowly thickening in a suffocating, invisible shroud. The cotton was back, sucking the moisture from her throat and blocking her words. She was beginning to hate her own inability to speak, and their own inability to even mimic anything remotely close to typical dinner conversation, with her present at the table. They didn’t even try, really, but in a way she was somewhat grateful that they didn’t attempt to pretend that this, too, was a normal situation.  
  
Every meal was like that from the first day onward, only occasionally broken by Hermione looking up to see her aunt and uncle smiling weakly at her, as if their smiles could infuse a bit of life into her. Much as they did mean well, their smiles served less as reassurance and more to ingrain into her that this situation would never, ever be normal.  
  
The calmest--she would have said best, but was there anything that good out there anymore?--time of day was when she was reading in the library. She’d avoided her relatives entirely in the first two days in favor of sleeping, as she had over the months swung like a pendulum between insomnia and sleeping most of the days away. But the third day she’d left her room of her own accord, and had wandered down the hall a bit aimlessly, her mind restless. She had been on the run, constantly moving for nearly a full year, before she’d made it overseas; it was strange, to be almost...safe. Comfortable.  
  
She didn’t like it. If anything, the quiet peace of the Dagworth-Granger household put her on edge even more, just waiting for the soft silence to be broken by horrified screams, much as it had within her own home, over a year previous. And so she wandered (or prowled, would perhaps be the more accurate term) about the house, rolling her wand between her fingers loosely as she explored the house from top to bottom, until she knew every passage, every room, every floor.  
  
Hermione didn’t do this just once, but actually a few times. She had a feeling her aunt and uncle had noticed, but had chosen to ignore it for reasons of their own. Whatever they were, Hermione was grateful. She’d gotten to check the wards and all of the hiding places and had planned her escape route should she need it.  
  
One day, she began her usual rounds, passing through the halls and observing the house with quiet precision for anything out-of-place, when her Uncle left his study upon seeing her pass by, and joined her, walking at her side with his hands neatly clasped behind his back as he followed her gaze, every motion as she swayed about the house.  
  
“Everything well then, Hermione?” he asked, giving her an indulgent smile that only showed the smallest bit of strain; a considerable improvement from the usual weak, trembling curve of Edmina’s lips.  
  
Hermione glanced over at him, and while she had known perfectly well that he had been present, she hadn’t looked at him until then. “I’m checking,” she said finally, turning away and doing a spell to make sure the nearby wards were in place.  
  
“Checking what, my dear?”    
  
She visibly swallowed a couple of times, as if it were hard to get the words out, but when she spoke her voice was collected and calm, and stronger than he’d ever heard it. “The wards and the house.”  
  
“What for?” he asked, stooping slightly to look at her as they walked. Redge was quite tall, really, just like her father was... _is,_ she corrected herself, _just like he is, we don’t know that he’s dead yet._  
  
She thought about it for a few moments, hoping it wouldn’t upset him, but maybe it would be good for him to know these things. They had made it to the top of the staircase and were about to head down when Hermione stopped and pointed at the door.  
  
“You have the highground here, but it also means that you have no escape route. This is the only stair down to the first floor, so unless you have a broom or leave through one of the upper story windows, then you’re stuck. It’s a good vantage point, but there’s not much by way of cover unless you throw that wardrobe there over on it’s side...and then your enemy will immediately know that you’re there. If they reach the top, the best way to prevent them from getting to you is firing a spell that will knock them back down the stairs, since they’re long and twist a bit, so there’s a chance they might go over the edge and break their neck.” It was the longest thing Hermione had said since...well, in a very long time,, and Redge looked entirely flabbergasted by the fact that she had said so much. Perhaps too much, in fact. She froze, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you that.”  
  
“No, no,” he reassured hurriedly, waving his hands about before him as if to stop her from following that train of thought. “It’s alright, really, I want to know. It’s...useful information, right?” he said, offering her a small smile, slightly weaker than the first but still present, somehow.  
After a moment of speculation as she took in the expression on his face, picking it apart and garnering his motive, she continued. “It depends on how safe Britain stays,” she said, but she didn’t want to think about that, so she descended the stairs. A year ago, she would have never thought to descend before her elders as if taking the lead, but now she didn’t care for such frivolities. They were pointless, and served no purpose in keeping her safe and alive.  
  
“So...what else have you er, discerned, about the house?” Redge asked, tugging a bit at his tie to loosen it as they moved once again.  
  
Hermione normally went into the sitting room next, where Edmina was, but she had a feeling this conversation would upset her a great deal, so they moved past it. “I put wards around the sitting room,” said Hermione. “It’s the closest room to the front door and Edmina spends most of her day there. If anyone got in, she probably wouldn’t be able to put her embroidery down and grab her wand in time to defend herself. The room has tall windows though, and those are good exit points, if you have the skill to apparate and are daring enough to break one and jump, but there is always the possibility of anti-apparition wards.” She gulped slightly. “We had to deal with those, not that they were really needed...” She didn’t continue on, and the strength she had been exhibiting in her voice died with each moment she mentioned the memory. Redge obviously took note, but said nothing, giving her an encouraging look.  
  
Noticing, but not willing to mention anything further, she opened the cupboard under the stairs, unable to pass by it without looking in to see if anyone was hiding there. “The safest place is the kitchen--a good few places to hide and return fire, a heat source that you can direct at any intruder, and flour...flour is explosive in the right conditions, though you’d want to make sure you were clear of the area. Not to mention that, if need be, you can hide the entrance to the cellar and remain there in relative comfort for several days, since there’s food, water, and other things. A lot of families had escape routes in their cellars, in Germany. We had a...” she closed her eyes, throat working soundlessly, before she forced herself to continue, “A secret cupboard, between the kitchen and the living room, behind the couch, since we didn’t have a cellar. A good thing, because they tore up the floor looking for one when they couldn’t find me.”  
  
Redge’s face went a pasty shade that was just barely off-white, at this confession. “You managed to hide...”  
  
“They left only one of them in the room with me, because really, what danger would a fifteen year old girl pose when she was already hurt? My wand was only a few feet away. I called it to me, and used the entrail expelling curse...I’m fairly certain he died, but it saved my life and gave me a few spare moments. I think my magic covered up the blood trail. If it hadn’t they would have found me.”  
  
She had looked so far away, so haunted, at those memories, but then she unexpectedly smiled. Vividly angry, almost a bit wild. “But they didn’t get what they wanted. Not all of it.”  
  
Redge stood, speechless and pale, and she could see that his eyes were trailing over the scars about her neck and hands. He leaned heavily against the wall in the hallway. “They came looking for Jace’s work, then?” he asked, voice cracking.  
  
“They took him alive. They came back for the notes, but I’d taken them by then and hidden again, though I’d prepared to leave when I could.”    
  
“How...” Redge looked to be choking back tears; his eyes were wet with them, and he held a hand to cover his lips. “How...” he couldn’t seem to work up the words. Ah, yes, he had cotton in his throat too, she realized.  
  
She knew what he wanted to ask, though, anyway. “I was lucky that he liked to play with his food,” she relented, before turning away to continue her strange little ‘tour’. She didn’t look back to see Redge leaning against the wall, not even when she heard a small, repressed sob from his direction.  
  
She wondered, after that, if he’d push her away. If he wasn’t ready, to know. Some part of her still told her that he hadn’t been, but another, stronger part, said that she hadn’t been ready either. But time stood still for no one, and Redge deserved to know the truth, at the very least. He and his wife had been more than accommodating, and more importantly, had known well enough to leave her be for a time until she had adjusted. She still wasn’t at that point, quite yet; she wondered at times if she ever would be, but these things took time and healing, and that wouldn’t happen unless she allowed it to.  
  
Hermione wasn’t even sure if she could handle the thought of it for a while. Letting down her guard was painful in the most unusual of ways, and the idea of ending her patrols to ease the minds of her relatives just made her panic. That had been the reasons she had panicked at St. Mungo’s mainly--all those strangers coming and going and not being able to get up and _check_ everything to make sure it was safe.  
  
But he didn’t. He didn’t follow her the next day, but when she reached the end, which was always checking the backdoor to make sure its wards were safe, her uncle met her on the stairs. He looked worried, and Hermione resigned herself to whatever was coming.  
  
“I’d like to show you something in the library,” he said, and Hermione nodded before following her uncle to the library that had been across the hall from his study. It was a bit stiff and dusty, as her uncle kept the books he used the most in his study, and it made her ache at how different it was from her home. Her family had lived in the library, it seemed, more than they did in their own living room. She could still vaguely remember her father climbing the ladder to get a book, when she was younger, only to have it fly off the shelf out of his reach, followed by the small giggle of a child in the midst of the best sort of mischief.  
  
She followed him past the shelves, and found a back table with a couple of stacks of books on them. Hermione glanced at the spines, reading that the titles varied widely except for the overarching theme of protection, from wards to spells to amulet creation.  
  
“I thought, perhaps, that you might find these useful,” he said, and afterwards cleared his throat, not sure what else to say as Hermione moved them around to peer at the different titles. “I er, suppose I’ll leave you to it then--”  
  
“Stay.”  
  
He stopped short just as he was about to move through the door, looking back to her as she turned and met his gaze. “Please?” she added, the word almost an afterthought.  
  
After that, Redge would spend a little while in the library with her, when Hermione was reading. They worked on their own projects and didn’t talk much, but it was the first social interaction they really found themselves comfortable with, in each other’s presence. Eventually, Edmina found them there, and would occasionally join them as she tatted yarn or worked through a stretch of embroidery. They’d sit there for hours like that, silence only broken by the pull of Edmina’s needle on fabric and the flap of paper at the turn of a page.  
  
In private, Edmina and Redge talked, and Redge shared what Hermione had revealed to him. Horrified as she was, Edmina voiced none of her concerns outside of the privacy of their rooms, remaining prim and proper as always, as she tried to find things that Hermione liked to do that she, too, could join her with. Eventually it came to be that Hermione was with them throughout almost half their waking hours, curled up on the sofa with a book after walking the halls with Redge, while Edmina began to embroider her dresses and shirts with old protective runes and other little comforts, at Redge’s suggestion. It was a small thing, but the girl seemed to appreciate the gesture nonetheless, and wore those shirts and skirts almost every day, crisp and new as they were. Soon the thought crossed their minds that perhaps things were getting better for their niece, despite the horrors she had been through.  
  
They realized, one day, when Hermione came down from her room to seat herself at the dinner table, that they had been incorrect in this assumption.  
  
“Hermione, dear...” Redge began awkwardly even as Edmina fainted dead away in her seat, “That’s quite the um, unique haircut you have there.”  
  
Hermione sighed, and her hand reached to fiddle with the ends of her new hair. She didn’t remember why she had done it, exactly. One moment she had been brushing her hair lazily in the mirror, and the next she had been filled with such a desperate self-loathing. Before she’d known it, she’d taken a pair of scissors and chopped away most of her hair to hang unevenly around her ears. “It was too matted to take care of. It was always a pain, anyway.” There. That sounded reasonable. Almost.  
  
Redge glanced over at his wife, and quickly called Whimsy to get the smelling salts, before turning back to his niece. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what to say, but it didn’t seem normal in any sense of the word. The young girl he had known before her most recent arrival in Britain had, despite it being messy and a bit wild, loved her hair.  
  
“Hermione,” he asked gently, leaning over the edge of the table a bit, “Are you alright?”  
  
 _What a stupid question_ was the first thing she thought, but it was immediately followed by guilt. He was just concerned and she knew it. “I...no, not really,” she said quietly, and began spooning baked cauliflower onto her plate. “And I don’t want to talk about it,” she said with more authority than she felt. Something of that must have shown in the way her face twisted when she said it, because Redge went very silent then, pausing only momentarily to bring his wife out of her faint and take her to another room, before he joined her once more and they finished their meal in relative silence.  
  
“I can have a barber trim the ends for you, if you like. Or I’m certain Edmina knows a good hairdresser. It could be a nice little bob cut, like those American girls are so fond of.”  
  
“...Could they come to the house?” Hermione questioned, ashamed for having to ask but the thought of going outside made her want to vomit.  
  
“I think so,” Redge said after a moment of speculation as Edmina slowly pulled her chair back out upon entering the room again, and took her seat. “Mina dear, do you think we could get a barber or perhaps one of your friends to come and trim Hermione’s hair? I think one of those popular American cuts might suit her hair at this length, don’t you?”  
  
Edmina’s lips trembled slightly as she raised the fork to her mouth, and chewed through a bit of stewed beef. “Yes I think that might be possible, I’ll see if I can contact Bertha about it sometime tomorrow.”  
  
“Bertha Baginold? Oh good gracious, that chatterbox? Do you really think that’s such a good idea--”  
  
Edmina gave Redge a stinging glare that momentarily brought Hermione out of her stupor. “Bertha is perfectly sweet and contains the ability to employ utmost discretion at need, I will have you know.”  
  
Hermione almost smiled. Apparently, despite everything, if Edmina wanted something then that was that. But she didn’t and instead just stored away that knowledge for later use and consideration. She was too...tired (she didn’t think that was the right word but it was all that came to mind) to handle it now.  
  
And so, the very next day Edmina floo-called her dear friend, who promptly bustled her way through the fireplace into the kitchen with a neat little box under one arm and a grumpy expression upon her face. She was rather portly (almost as if the name itself required it), but there was a certain glow about her that was almost comforting; motherly. The glow almost hid her sharp intelligence, but Hermione had begun to notice those sort of things by sheer instinct over the past year.  
“Oh Lordy,” Bertha exclaimed, dumping the box onto the sofa unceremoniously and sending its contents shifting and clanking about within the box. She came over close to Hermione, looking the girl over. Hermione, in turn, was rigid and met the woman’s eyes, clearly resigned to whatever she would say.  
  
Bertha took her chin in hand and she shied away at the touch, but Bertha grabbed right on and held her in place as she turned her head from side to side, looking her over. “Such a travesty. You have the Granger’s voluminous locks and yet you chopped it all off.”  
  
“I didn’t like it anymore.” It was all the explanation she had to give, weak as it was, but she stuck with it. Repetition was key, with lies. Or maybe it was truth. She didn’t even think enough to care for the difference.  
  
Bertha just sniffed unappreciatively at Hermione’s lackluster explanation. “Whatever your reason was, if you don’t grow it out past this point then you’ll send Edmina into a right tizzy and Lord knows Edmina in a tizzy is something to behold.”  
  
Hermione liked this woman. She was sensible and had a certain honest brutality to her words that almost made her smile. It was nice to not have someone walking on eggshells around her. Bertha didn’t pretend that Hermione was a happy, healthy young woman. She didn’t even touch on the subject, save to bop her on the head lightly when she shied away and snap, “You don’t jump when someone is holding a pair of scissors by your ear, girl! You could lose it and then you wouldn’t be able to hear Edmina’s woes when she has a conniption! Actually, that might be a positive, but don’t do it anyways!” and Hermione would reply reluctantly, “Yes Mrs. Baginold,” and she would swat her shoulder and say “It’s Bertha to you, you’ll be seeing me about often enough.”  
  
Bertha stayed for another hour after that, having tea and biscuits in the sitting room with Edmina while Hermione sat idly by, absently fingering the short, neatly-trimmed ends of her new bob. She wasn’t sure she liked it quite yet, and beyond that wasn’t sure why she should care about such a thing. It wasn’t important. A neat, tidy haircut wasn’t going to keep her alive.  
  
Edmina didn’t cringe when she looked at Hermione anymore, though, so perhaps that was something to be thankful for at the very least.  
  
After that incident, though, things ran smoothly. Edmina would chatter away incessantly at her as Hermione curled up beside her with a book in her lap, and she’d occasionally glance up when Edmina said her name, signifying she had to actually listen and possibly respond. Eventually the chatter became like white noise, and thus very relaxing. Hermione occasionally found herself nodding off upon the cushions beside her, noting from the corner of her eye the small, tentative little smile that graced Edmina’s lips as she would reach out and tuck her short locks back behind her ear, and murmur about getting her a few pretty little hairpins to keep it from her face. And Hermione would always wake up covered in a blanket smelling of lilacs and crisp spring mornings.  
  
The next time a wrench was thrown into their routine, it was with the arrival of two unexpected guests to morning brunch. Two people, in particular, that Hermione had hoped to avoid as much as humanly possible. The fact that Edmina and Redge had told everyone, including them, to not drop by unannounced (as it made Hermione defensive) only made her more annoyed.  
  
Things were very tense between the matron of the Dagworth-Granger family and her estranged eldest son, Hermione’s father, who had been partially disowned as a result of his insistence upon involvement with the magical world despite marrying a muggle and being a squib.  
  
Hermione always thought her grandmother looked like she had a smudge of something nasty that nobody could quite see, just under her nose, that she was always smelling, because she had this weird sort of repulsed expression at every new thing that she regarded, and Hermione was no exception to this. When her grandmother stepped into the dining room and saw Hermione seated at the table with a book unfolded beside her brunch plate, the first thing to leave her lips was “Oh good gods she looks feral.”  
  
“Mother!” Redge exclaimed, a horrified look upon his face. Even Edmina, who saw the best in everyone, was not looking kindly upon her mother-in-law.  
  
Hermione averted her eyes from the obnoxious woman, hating just how much they looked alike (Hermione hated to admit that she was the spitting image of this devil woman), instead choosing to regard her grandfather with a wary gaze. He smiled tentatively even as he hid behind the old crone, nodding politely. Perhaps, before everything that had happened in the past year, she might have returned that smile. Now she just looked down at her food, continuing to eat.    
  
“Hmph.” the Dagworth-Granger matron sneered, before primly seating herself beside Edmina. “She ought to learn proper manners or be switched for misbehavior, you’ve been negligent with your niece, boy.” She glanced sharply at the gloves and scarf Hermione wore, which clashed horribly with her dress. “Take that foolish, inappropriate attire immediately, young lady.  
  
Calmly, Hermione removed her gloves, and then her scarf, revealing the ugly scars that circled her hands and neck and that dipped into her collarbone and below, carving ‘mudblood’ just below. The Dagworth-Granger matron gave a horrified gasp, and a little exclamation of “How disgusting.” Hermione _almost_ moved to replace the scarf, but looking at the absolutely scandalized expression on her grandmother’s face was more than worth the feeling of near-painful exposure.  
  
Hermione coldly regarded the odious hag. “You honestly think after crossing two warzones and multiple countries on foot that I wouldn’t have scars?”  
  
The Dagworth-Granger matron muttered angrily under her breath and dug into the food that Whimsy hastily placed before her with unnatural fervor, though she picked over every piece of meat before eating it, obviously avoiding besmirching the ‘pleasant’ atmosphere by looking at the offending girl. However, her grandfather’s gaze was not so averted--he looked clearly concerned, and his eyes never wavered from her face save to slip down to the blatant scars that even crossed over her knuckles and hands, no spot having been left without graffiti.  
  
Brunch was a very awkward affair after that, the silence not broken by anyone for the next hour or so until everyone was done. As soon as her grandmother was done, she excused herself as quickly as she could and left the dining room as if Hermione’s troubles were contagious.    
  
“That wasn’t very nice...” Edmina eventually managed to say.  
  
“And what would you rather I do, hide my skin from the world for the rest of my life?”  
  
“Not you, dear,” said Edmina, “I was referring to the old bitch.”  
  
Hermione and Redge both gaped, completely not seeing that coming, and Hermione’s grandfather choked on his pumpkin juice on what strangely sounded like a laugh.  
  
“I ah, must apologize for my wife,” he said tentatively, even as the floo roared from the other room signifying her leaving. “She does what she wants and anyone else be damned.”  
  
Hermione wasn’t surprised, in all honesty. Not all wizarding marriages were made out of love.The Dagworth-Granger union had been for both political and monetary reasons, and it was almost blatantly obvious in the way they behaved around one another. The Matron ignored her husband, and he quietly sat at her side, until she was out of the room. This seemed to be the basis of their relationship. And then, as if her very presence seemed to stifle him, he’d perk up and begin speaking and interacting, as if waking from a deep sleep.  
  
 _Like sleeping beauty,_ Hermione thought as a small smile twitched at the corner of her lips, but went no further than that _a very wrinkly, old sleeping beauty_.  
  
Her grandfather looked at Hermione with a sad smile, and Hermione was reminded so very much of her father that it hurt. They had the same eyes, and they had worn that same expression when Hermione cried at ten when they decided to have her privately tutored rather than send her to Beauxbatons.  
  
“How are you, dear child?” he asked as Hermione helped herself to another glass of orange juice.  
  
She wanted to sigh at how everyone seemed to ask her this question.  
  
“Settling in alright? I know this house can seem rather big at times. But it’s a nice townhouse. I was raised here, with my sister,” he said, seeming to understand that Hermione wasn’t going to answer his last question and he would settle for chatting at her. Much like Edmina, actually. “...and so I was thinking it might be nice if we could pop down to Diagon Alley some day and get you a few school things, just the four of us, mm?”  
  
“School?” asked Hermione, taken by surprise. She glanced over at her aunt and uncle, not sure what to feel.  
  
“Oh, I apologize...I didn’t realize she hadn’t been told...”  
  
“Ah...” Redge began awkwardly, “We don’t have access, here, to such a wide pool of potential instructors for you. Learning at home is possible, but not practical, so we figured that it might be for the best.”  
  
“No, I understand,” said Hermione quickly, knowing it was expensive. “I just...”  
  
“I know dear, it’s a sharp change after such a long time, and I know you’ve never been in school before but it might do you good to be around a few boys and girls your own age...make friends, and the like,” said Edmina.  
  
“Hogwarts also has the largest library in Britain aside from that at the Ministry, and is well protected with ancient wards,” said Redge helpfully, and while her grandfather looked a bit confused at why his son would mention that, no one else was surprised.  
  
Hermione hated to feel it, but she felt betrayed. She had just been settling in and feeling...peaceful. Or at least able to rest some small amount without waking up screaming every night. She could still remember the first night, when Whimsy had gone barrelling across the hall to the Dagworth-Granger’s master bedroom and sobbed that ‘Miss is not waking and she is so scared’, sending both her aunt and uncle bounding into the room in their nightclothes to comfort her, futile as the effort was.  
  
Hermione looked down at her food, not eating but not able to look at her relatives. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Edmina turn to her husband, concerned, but couldn’t see her uncle’s expression.  
  
Her grandfather cleared his throat and pulled a bit at his collar. “Yes, well, thank you all for the delightful brunch, I apologize for dropping in on you so suddenly. And Hermione, dear, just let me know and I’d be more than happy to take you shopping. Maybe get you a pet for school, along with your supplies.”  
  
“Thank you, grandfather,” she said, finding the cotton was in her mouth again and her words felt hollowed, but she managed to get that much out at least before it closed over the inside of her throat.  
  
“Toodle-pip!” he said cheerfully as he popped his bowler over his balding head and walked into the sitting room to the floo, soon followed by the roar of the fire as he passed through.  
  
The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence, only broken when Edmina piped up, “We were meaning to tell you, Hermione, we just...weren’t sure what to say...”  
  
Hermione quietly stood, pushing her chair in as she left the table.  She didn’t look back to see Edmina stand and reach out as if to stop her, or Redge lay a hand on his wife’s shoulder and quietly get her to sit down once more. All Hermione wanted was to be alone.

***

  
“Yes well the girl is indeed a particularly special, unique case,” an elderly, crackling voice echoed from the sitting room as Hermione crouched down just beyond the door, listening to the conversation of the strangers within. Her fine-tuned instinct, wire-thin as it was, had alerted her the very instant that they had guests in the house and she had crept down, silent as a snake about to strike, but instead leaning her head back against the wall and listening as the words filtered through the door.  
  
“It’s a fragile situation,” another voice agreed, “And I think due process need not be entirely followed to the letter, if we are going to have Hermione be as comfortable as possible within the walls of our great castle,” said another, slower voice that seemed to send waves of lulling calm with its very tone. Something about that set her on high alert. It was the sort of natural, instinctive magic that suggested power. Great power. “Hermione, I think, would not be comfortable within the dorms, regardless of what house she is placed in.”  
  
“But Albus,” said the other, elder male, “It’s entirely unheard of!”  
  
“A special situation calls for special alterations to the rules, Armando,” he said, and for all of the softness and politeness of its tone, it held authority that seemed to cow the other into silence. She could imagine ‘Armando’, as he had been named, nodding unconsciously in agreement despite his own discomfort.  
  
Not to mention she had a very, very bad feeling about who “Albus” could be.  
  
“She’s still very...fragile,” said her uncle. “Honestly, Edmina and I, since we told her, have wondered about the wisdom in this decision. She is comfortable here with us, and we will miss her deeply. And you know how children can be, especially since Hermione’s trauma is very visible.”  
  
“Yes, there is that matter, isn’t there?” Armando said, and she could just imagine him padding at his forehead with a kerchief. “I suppose some amount of leniency can be employed in this situation, she has never been in school before after all, and perhaps consistent attendance will not be such a heavy requirement. She’s quite far ahead on her own, if these reports are correct,” he chattered, and the quiet shuffling of paper reached her.  
  
“We should consider that perhaps she isn’t ready,” said Albus quietly.  
  
“Nonsense,” said Armando. “Getting into the swing of life will be good for the girl!”  
  
“Armando, she walked through a warzone over a year after her parents were murdered, when she herself was thought to be long-dead. The girl is not just ‘any other teen’, she has been through a great deal of struggle and is not yet acclimated to society. At the very least, we should do all that we have the capability to, to ease her into this setting. Hogwarts is indeed a rather boisterous place, when the children are about, and she should have some form of escape from that at times, I think.”  
  
“Yes yes,” said Armando, his voice wavering. “Any other suggestions?”  
  
“I don’t know,” piped up Edmina unexpectedly, and Hermione could sense the hardly suppressed tears in her voice. “I’m so worried about her, she barely spoke when she first came to us...she was like a ghost, just flitting about the halls and jumping at every little noise...I don’t know if she’s ready for this, Redge, I don’t know at all and if we hurt her by doing this I--”  
  
The shifting of fabric was followed by Edmina’s quiet sobs as Redge hugged her tightly. “Now, dearest, she’ll be alright. She’s a strong girl, and if there’s even the slightest hint that things are not well, we will bring her back and she’ll stay with us.. I can teach her potions, at the very least, I am qualified in that. And we’ll find some way for her to get her education. I won’t deny her that, as brilliant as she is.”  
  
“Perhaps it would be wise, Armando, rather than to have her come at the beginning of the term, to arrive as the holidays start so she can become familiar with the school, and the locations of her classes.”  
  
“Oh yes yes, that would be perfectly acceptable,” Dippet agreed, and she could practically see him nod sagely at this suggestion.  
  
Hermione moved to step away, a hand over her lips as she felt a hot, wet tear slide down her cheek and wiped it hastily.  
  
The floor creaked. Hermione froze in place, wand clenched in her hand, as the door cracked open and Redge peered out. “Hermione, why don’t you come in, dear? We have some people here who would like very much to meet you.”  
  
Hermione nodded stiffly, and as Redge turned around she quickly wiped her watery eyes to remove the evidence of her weakness before entering the room.  
  
A rather frail, thin old man perched on the edge of the couch, closest to the door, practically drowning in his voluminous robes of state. He had a short, neatly-trimmed beard and long curly white hair that fell loosely over his shoulders from beneath his fur cap. Across from him sat a tall man with fiery red hair, liberally streaked with gray and peppered hints of white and watching her shrewdly over his half-moon spectacle. He was considerably younger, but seeming to bely wisdom to the age of the man beside him. He, as well, was seated on the couch, but closest to the floo and with his wand neatly resting upon his lap. This man, she realized, he was a warrior. She stiffened her own hold on her wand unconsciously, and it seemed that this action did not escape the man’s notice, as his eyes flicked momentarily downward before returning to her face. The smaller, older man, however, was very blatantly focused on the scar across her collarbone.  
  
“This is our niece, Hermione,” said Redge as an introduction.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear girl,” the younger man said, eyes twinkling a bright, disconcerting blue. “I am Albus Dumbledore, the transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the man beside me is Armando Dippet, our headmaster.”  
  
Hermione stiffened at Dumbledore’s name, having somewhere known it was really him but even more nervous now that it was confirmed. She didn’t even turn to look at the headmaster, instead keeping a wary  
  
“I’ve heard all about you. You’re the one Grindelwald wants to kill,” she said, voice low. “You’re the one he always curses at when his plans fail.” And she knew other things, too, but she wasn’t going to say them in polite company.  
  
Dippet stiffened visibly, and gave a nervous laugh. “Haha yes well, that’s neither here nor there--”  
  
Dumbledore held up his hand just slightly, and Dippet trailed off into awkward silence. “Hermione,” he said kindly, “We would very much like it if you joined us at Hogwarts, to complete the remainder of your education."  
  
Hermione stood there for a moment, considering it. She didn’t want to go, and that much she knew. However, she didn’t want to be any more of a burden to Redge and Edmina than she had been since she’d arrived. They were well off, but private tutors had been an extensive drain on her father’s inheritance, dwindling it almost to nothing. She didn’t want to do that to the young couple--they were only ten years older than her, and surely wanted children of their own.  
  
“I’ll go,” she said, and she saw Redge and Edmina smile from their seats across from her. Armando Dippet was saying something unimportant, basically saying how happy they were to have her at Hogwarts, and she tuned him out. It was Dumbledore who she was paying attention to--he was smiling at her acceptance, but yet there was a hint of sadness to him as well even as he held her gaze, his blue eyes seeming to burrow past her own into the deepest recesses of her thoughts, and for a moment she saw a different pair of blue eyes, one she had forced herself not to think of for many months.  
  
“Very good then, very good!” Dippet piped up, clapping his hands loudly and jolting her out of her reverie as she tore her gaze from Dumbledore’s. It had seemed, in that moment, like he was looking into her soul with those piercing eyes, and that twinkling little smile was beginning to annoy her.  
  
Something told her that she was not going to like Albus Dumbledore very much, in the coming days.

********


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
The trip to Diagon had been absolute hell. She’d flinched at every noise (and there were many), and at one point a loud CRACK went off in the alley when a wizard fired off a harmless spell, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as her eyes darted about, looking for an imagined attacker, her knuckles white around her wand. By the time they had finished with her school supplies and moved on to meandering about in search of the pet shop, not only Hermione but her poor Grandfather as well were on edge.  
  
They eventually found the pet shop, though, and Hermione had painfully weaved through the tight store aisles past yapping crups and equally yapping customers. A parakeet had screeched and she’d had to convince herself in that short moment not to send the annoying cage of birds exploding across the store in a puff of feathers and half-cooked canaries.   
  
They reached a slightly quieter part of the store, the two back rooms where the owner kept kneazles and owls respectively, the second having an open ceiling and being lined with perches, the other more of a play area with many kennels lined up along the walls that the animals could enter and leave at will.   
  
Her lip curled as a kitten fell across her foot and began to play with the laces of her shoes.   
  
“Well?” her grandfather asked nervously, mopping at his brow as he repressed a loud sneeze.   
  
She liked the kitten, but it didn’t...fit. “Give me a few minutes,” she said tentatively, prowling about the room, inspecting each kneazle as it approached her or passed her by, uninterested by most all that crossed her path. There was a nice spotted one, over in the left corner of the room, but it was entirely disinterested in her, and Hermione quickly realized the feeling was mutual. Crouching down to the floor, she peered into the kennels even as another cat rubbed against her ankle.   
  
There, in the darkest corner against the wall, yellow eyes regarded her warily, snapping from beneath a mane of frizzed red that reminded her of how untameable her own hair had been before she cut it. It slowly sauntered up to the edge of the kennel, and Hermione was surprised at the obvious intelligence of the kneazle as it regarded her with suspicion from within a squashed face. The kneazle was fully grown and looked to have been a stray at some point, rough and ragged as it was around the edges, but instantly, she knew he was perfect.   
  
“This one,” she said, “This is the one.”   
  
Her grandfather looked at the flat-faced kneazle mistrustfully. “Are you sure, dear?”   
  
“Yes, I’m sure.” To prove her point, as soon as one of the workers opened the door and let him out, the kneazle launched itself at her. The worker nearest let out a yelp of surprise even as she caught the cat in her arms, stroking its mangy fur as it purred in contentment, lazily cleaning off her face. “Yes, this is the right one, I think,” she repeated, patting the kneazle. It clawed its way up to her shoulders and wrapped itself loosely about her neck, batting at a loose strand of hair with one paw.   
  
“His name is Crookshanks,” said the worker, visibly surprised at the interaction between the kneazle and Hermione.   
  
“A fitting name,” she agreed, lightly scratching along the side of the cat’s jaw and receiving a loud, rumbling purr in return. She realized that she had not only been smiling, but had been doing so for several minutes, but it didn’t fade even as she became aware of it. Her grandfather was staring at her openly, but there was some spark of happiness in his expression, laced beneath his doubt of her choice in pet.   
  
“Alright dear, your wish is my command,” her grandfather said with an indulgent smile, even as he sneezed loudly into his kerchief and murmured ‘oh goodness me’ under his breath. “Here you are,” he said, dropping the required amount on the front counter as Hermione walked about, coddling the unattractively large kneazle as if it were the sweetest of kittens.   
  
After they paid for Crookshanks and left the store, her grandfather tentatively broke the silence. “What made you decide on him?” he asked.   
  
“He’s broken, but not ruined,” she answered, petting the kneazle without looking at her grandfather’s expression as the unspoken words, ‘ _just like me’_ hung in the air between them.   
  
“Well then, perhaps...a bit of a treat, is in order, I think. It’s been a long day,” her grandfather suggested, wiping his nose and giving a small, relieved sniffle. Hermione didn’t feel like eating at all, her stomach in knots with anxiety  
  
“Sure,” she relented, knowing her grandfather thought it would be a kind gesture to her.  
“Fortesque’s it is!” he said cheerfully, traipsing off in the direction of a bright building painted in pastel colors, with a little extending patio before its entrance where several children sat about enjoying ice cream, despite the cold weather.   
  
_It’s never too cold for ice cream,_ her father always told her, before handing her a fresh-scooped cone...  
  
“Never too cold for ice cream!” her grandfather exclaimed as they pushed past the front door, sending a massive amount of bells that had been attached all about its frame jangling in all directions. He didn’t notice her pained expression that passed just as quickly as it came.  
  
The hour passed in uncomfortable silence, her grandfather’s happy mood fading with each passing minute as he realized that something about the entire thing wasn’t quite as enjoyable as he’d originally imagined. Eventually he sat poking his spoon about the half-melted bowl of his own frozen treat, a moody expression on his face. “Bette never has sweets in the house...says it’s bad for my heart, she does.   
  
Hermione almost bit out something scathing about the old woman, but she resisted the urge. “It won’t hurt your heart, but it isn’t good for your teeth.”   
  
Her grandfather grinned, revealing that several were missing. “Well it’s a good thing I don’t really have too many to worry about then!” At Hermione’s surprised expression, he smiled wider. “In your old age you tend to lose a few here and there.”   
  
When Hermione and her grandfather, who had decided to accompany her home through the floo from the Leaky Cauldron, came back to the Dagworth-Granger residence, Edmina and Redge were both there in the room to meet them. However, their greetings quickly died as they looked to the orange furball curled up contently in Hermione’s arms.   
  
“This is Crookshanks,” she said, wearing a very small but proud smile as he meowed curiously at the couple staring at him.  
  
Her grandfather just gave them a sort of ‘what can you do’ shrug, accompanied by a small grin. “I told her I’d get her a pet,” he said with some amount of cheer, but it didn’t pervade to the other two, who were quickly growing more somber by the second. “Ah, well, I suppose it’s about time for me to depart. Hermione, you have a good year at school, and I’ll be seeing you over the summer,” he said, patting her shoulder lightly before disappearing into the floo.   
  
“We’ve packed all your things, dear, and a few extra,” Edmina said, a slight tremor in her voice as she patted the suitcases neatly piled upon the sofa. “I...you don’t have to go, if you don’t want to,” she blurted suddenly. In that moment Hermione really, really could see Edmina’s age, and how young she really was; barely even five years older than Hermione herself, but already playing the role of the mother. Before Hermione could stop her, Edmina had caught her up in her arms and held her tightly (causing Crookshanks to yowl loudly in protest), pressing a teary smooch to her cheek before releasing her. “Write to us, okay? We want to hear from you every week,” she ordered, shaking her finger at her before bursting into tears once again.   
  
Hermione had survived all sorts of things, but yet despite that she felt completely helpless at her aunt’s tears. “I will write,” she agreed, chin trembling slightly. Redge, as she saw when she turned to him for help, had turned from her and his shoulders were shaking slightly.   
  
“You know...” Hermione said, unsure of how to comfort them. “I love you,” was all she could get out, and rather than helping it seemed to only upset them further. She hugged Crookshanks tightly to her chest even as she saw Redge cover his mouth with his hand, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath.   
  
“We do too, Hermione, we do too,” he repeated, lowering his hand to reveal a small, exhausted smile. “Well...we may as well get going or we’ll never leave,” he admitted weakly even as Edmina shed fresh tears at the thought, and with a flick of his wand the suitcases shrank, and he pocketed them, holding out each arm to the two girls.   
  
Hermione tentatively took one arm and held on as they went through the fireplace and out into a spacious stone office.  

 

* * *

Dippet sat, perched in his oversized robes in an ornate chair that had been pulled tightly up to the desk before him, working his way hastily through a pile of papers twice as tall as he himself, while Dumbledore and another, slightly younger witch stood to either side, sorting through them. At their arrival, Dippet gave a bit of a jump as the floo flared, sending the papers flying about the room as the second pile slowly leaned to the side, the witch rushing to hold it up desperately, seeming to have forgotten the use of her wand. Dumbledore, however, didn’t, and with a flick and a wave all the papers were neatly stacked and ordered in more manageable piles.   
  
“Bloody Christmas cards,” Dippet muttered to himself, before popping out of his seat and hurrying around the desk, the fact that he wasn’t really such a little man but a very tall, wiry one only then apparent upon standing as he rushed to greet them, face splitting into a wide smile.   
  
“Ah yes, Mr. and Mrs. Dagworth-Granger, a pleasure to see you again, and young Miss Hermione as well!” he said hurriedly, clearly not quite as pleased as pretended. Her aunt and uncle didn’t notice, but returned the smiles weakly.  
  
“Perhaps we should get started, then?” asked Dippet, and Hermione glanced up from her visually checking the room.   
  
“The Sorting, dear,” said Edmina, seeming to catch Hermione’s surprise. The explanation calmed Hermione, as she’d read about the Hogwarts sorting system in her readings over the years.  
“Oh,” she said flatly, as Dippet pulled an old, battered hat that had been patched over many times and dropped it unceremoniously onto her head.   
  
_Ah, another Granger,_ said the Sorting hat in her mind, startling her. _No need to be frightened. I’m just an old, harmless piece of magic. But you have good reason for your fears, good reasons indeed..._ Hermione shivered.  
  
 _Can we just get this over with quickly then, please?_  
  
 _Oh yes right right, not a problem at all. Now, you’re brave. No doubt about that at all. Smart too. However, those aren’t the traits that have defined you the most. It was your determination, cunning, and ambition that kept you alive out there. You might have been a Gryffindor, once, but now I have to say--_  
  
“SLYTHERIN” she heard the hat shout, no longer in her mind.   
  
Slowly, she removed the hat from her head as the silence continued around her, blinking owlishly as she clutched it tentatively in her hands, unsure as to what to do with the old, raggedy thing.   
  
It was Dippet who recovered first, plucking the hat from her hands as he spoke. “Marvelous. Marvelous house, indeed, Hermione. We’ll have to introduce you to Professor Slughorn after we get you settled in your rooms. He’ll be your head of house.”  
  
She turned to her aunt and uncle. Edmina looked a bit confused, but Redge just looked thoughtful. “Slytherin’s a good house, for those with cunning and ambition,” he said absently. “But very much focused on pureblood supremacy. Be careful there, Hermione.”   
  
“That will be troublesome,” she said, fingers splaying over the place where ‘Mudblood’ was so prominently carved across her chest. Despite being related to the Dagworth-Grangers, her father being a squib basically labeled her a Muggleborn under most extreme pureblood ideologies. It was just her luck, really, that the house most likely filled with Grindlewald supporters would be the one to fit her best.   
  
“Yes well, Mz. Timbauld, will you fetch Slughorn to my office?” Dippet asked distractedly as he seated himself at his desk and began going through his papers once again. “Yes that’s very well, we’ll show you  
to your new quarters soon enough, there are a few things that need to be, ah, switched around.”   
  
“Well, looks like this is it,” said Redge, and before Hermione could protest she was pulled into a hug, which was suddenly joined by Edmina as well. She willed her arms to return the hug, or at least pat one of them more or less awkwardly on the arm, but they stayed glued to her sides. “We’ll be seeing you. Keep in touch, alright?” Redge said finally, releasing her, though Edmina clung tightly to her for a few seconds longer, obviously distraught.  
  
“I will. I’ll tell you all about Hogwarts, even though you both graduated from here,” she said with the barest hint of amusement.     
  
“Yes, well, here are your bags...if no-one unshrinks them for you then they’ll automatically--”   
  
“I know the spell,” she interrupted, taking the miniaturized bags.   
  
“Right, I should have known that,” Redge grinned, “You being the smart one in the family. Anyway, we’ll be seeing you when the summer hols come around.” With a smart little salute and a slight grin, he disappeared into the fire, taking Edmina with him as she waved at Hermione over her husband’s shoulder.   
  
Dippet motioned for her to take any seat she liked, and reluctantly, she did, as far away from Dumbledore as possible. This didn’t go unnoticed by the wizard, not that she really cared if he noticed, but he made no comment. In fact, the room was entirely quiet for the next several minutes, save for the soft whispering of Dippet and Dumbledore as they discussed some contract or another. Still, she felt him occasionally look up at her over the stacks of papers, a concerned expression on his face.   
  
“Is there something on my face?” she asked calmly, knowing that wasn’t it.   
  
“Nothing important, Hermione.”   
  
“I’m sure,” she said shortly, averting her eyes to the many portraits on the walls as they moved and whispered among one another. This room seemed, really, to be all about whispers and quieted, subversive conversation, deafening in its silence.   
  
Finally, though, the woman came back with a heavyset man with a large, neatly-waxed moustache, panting a little at the walk. Closing the door rather loudly, he immediately plopped into the seat beside her, eyes closed in relief as he seemed to droop in his chair.   
  
“Slughorn, I see you got here in good time,” Dumbledore said with just the smallest hint of amusement.   
  
Slughorn gave him a sharp look, but it melted immediately into a cheerful, deep laugh. “Ha yes, we all know I’m fat as a warthog,” he chuckled, “need to lay off the pastries for a bit, I suppose...” he mused, before chuckling. “Unlikely as that is. The food here is far too good for me to go without, so I shall be fat as long as the kitchen elves don’t serve mush for meals,” he admitted with a hearty grin. “So where is the little poppet?”  
  
His eyes quickly landed on Hermione where she sat rigidly in her seat, hands clasped together tightly before her, and the smile momentarily died on his lips. “Would this young lady be Hermione, then?”   
  
“Yes,” she said shortly, “And you are?”   
  
“Horace Slughorn, at your service m’dear! Head of Slytherin House and Potions Master in residence!” Seeming to collect himself at the shock of her appearance, he smiled. “Hermione Granger. Related to the Grangers and Dagworths, by any chance?”   
  
“Yes, actually, to both,” she said slowly, “Though I don’t particularly care about blood ties, if that’s what you’re talking about.”   
  
Slughorn’s cheery smile once again drooped, as did his eyes, ghosting over her collarbone as his skin went a shade paler. “Oh good gracious no not at all, that isn’t what I meant at all my dear girl I assure you, you are most welcome in Slytherin! I just keep in contact with my old students, you know, keep a good eye on them and help when I can.” The fact that they help him as well went unspoken.  
  
Oh yes, she saw it now. Slughorn was a collector. He was one of those who was happy to sit back and encourage greatness, and reap the benefits from those that succeeded in achieving it. That was what he was looking for, not that he really tried to hide it. When she met his gaze this time he flashed a wide grin in her direction. “Well, Miss Granger, shall we be on our way to show you about the school? Not to mention the Slytherin common room, and your own room. Quite a lucky girl indeed, you are,” he said, holding out his arm and leaving her the option of accepting it or leaving it. She naturally didn’t take it. His arm dropped back to his side, and he cleared his throat as they left Dippet’s office behind, before adopting a rather jaunty attitude once more.   
  
“Well, you’ve picked a good day to arrive, it’s just snowed out and the castle is quite beautiful today, covered in white as it is. Was beginning to think we weren’t going to have a white Christmas, wot! The Slytherin common rooms though, are located in the dungeons and open out onto the interior of the lake...quite pretty in it’s own right, that soft glow that comes down through the surface when the lights are out. Bit chilly down there, though, so warming charms are often put to good use.”   
  
Hermione nodded when required at the tour, quickly losing track of where in the world she was going in the movement between corridors, moving staircases, and hidden passageways. The paintings whispered to each other as they passed, making her look over her shoulder more often than she cared to admit at the wave of paranoia that resulted. She tried to, at least, remember what the rooms her classes were in looked like so that she could find them on her own later, but the images disappeared from her mind as soon as they passed.   
  


* * *

The Slytherin common room, located in the dungeons, held no interest to Hermione even as Slughorn gushed with pride about his house and students. She had no intention to really associate with anyone, much less with such obvious bigots that even her kind uncle would see it fit to warn her. She felt no comfort in the understated, old elegance of the room that clearly was made to be the home of the wealthy.    
  
“This is the common room, but your room is back down this way,” he rumbled, turning down another open stair just a bit past the one to the common room entrance. “My quarters are down this way, and a couple of guest rooms, as is the norm for every tower. Not that they’re ever really used, but they’ll do well in a pinch. The elves may still be cleaning, if you want to see though...”   
  
“That would be preferable,” she said, wanting to get away from the overwhelming events of the day.  
  
“Yes well,” Slughorn cleared his throat, and they moved down the stairwell, pausing at a tapestry. “Password,” he said, and the tapestry slid aside to reveal a door, which clicked as it opened. “To get in. You can re-set it later yourself, I’ll teach you the spell for it before I head off for the evening, it’s quite a quick learn.”   
  
“Thank you,” she said, not wanting to leave her room unguarded with such an obvious password. Slughorn held the door open for her as she made her way in. It wasn’t a terribly large room--a four-poster bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a small bookshelf took up most of the space. The only things that really distinguished the room from any other generic, stone-walled room was the overhanging candelabra and a window that looked out into what must be the lake she’d heard him mention earlier.  The dim light coming through the lakewater (seemingly the room was only just below the lake’s surface, for she could see the top of the water as it lapped against the window glass) was the only similarity between her room and the common room she’d just seen previously. When she stepped further in, she realized that Crookshanks was on her bed, his tail swishing lazily.   
  
“Very nice little room indeed, and not far away from the rest of your house either,” said Slughorn approvingly. “Now, let me teach you the spell and I’ll head back to my office.” He did, quickly, and then with a wave he exited, the old door creaking behind him.   
  
After the door closed, Hermione gave a full-bodied sigh and sat down on her bed, her hand coming out to absently pet Crookshanks, who the elves had brought down in his crate, much as he hated the thing. He prowled the edges of the room after leaving the bed, sniffing at every corner and squeezing himself through every nook and cranny until he knew the room as his own.   
  
While he did that, Hermione took her suitcases out of her pocket and put them back to their proper size. Just looking at the work made her feel exhausted, but she had the feeling that she wouldn’t sleep so she saw no reason to not begin unpacking. She was swinging towards a more insomniac phase, if the past two sleepless nights were anything to go by.   
  
The faint light drifting through the lakewater faded in however many hours Hermione spent unpacking, and by the time she finished it had been gone for some time. Crookshanks had made himself a kneazle fortress with the stacked suitcases in the corner, and she didn’t have the heart to shrink them for storage when he seemed to enjoy them.   
  
She sat down on the bed again, staring forlornly at the mostly-empty bookshelf across from her. Her uncle had offered to let her take some of the books that she had been reading with her, but she hadn’t wanted to remove any of his tomes from his personal library. Without much of anything to keep her distracted, she flopped back over and stared at the ceiling.   
  
_Blue eyes, yellowed teeth..._  
  
Her eyes snapped wide open. No, she’d been doing so _well,_ she couldn’t think about it. Sitting up straight, she ran her fingers through her cropped, frizzy hair. Crookshanks mewled at her from his corner, seeming to sense her distress.   
  
“C’mon,” she told him, getting off her bed, putting her shoes back on, and opening the door. She needed to do something to not let her mind wander unpleasantly, and wandering about the halls instead seemed to be the better option. With Crookshanks at her heels, she slipped through the common room and up the stairs to the entrance of the castle proper.   
  
It wasn’t terribly late, judging by the freshly-lit torches along the outer halls, but apparently the school was nearly empty during the holiday break, its only occupants either teachers or ghosts.   
  
Unsure of where to go--the castle was indeed vast--she decided to just follow the pattern of the wards inside the castle. She raised her wand and, for a brief moment, she saw the tendrils of multiple-colored protective spells and wards branching up, down, and out across the walls. The thickest tendrils went either towards the Hogwarts entrance or to the right, and thus she took the route away from the door.    
  
Seeing the strong, ancient spells for herself was a big comfort, so she followed the trails of magic through the hallways. The paintings regarded her, clearly someone new, with obvious curiosity, but she ignored them as she made her rounds. Crookshanks walked with her, occasionally sniffing about or batting at tassels on tapestries. It was cute at first, until one of the characters woven into the tapestry began screaming in horror at the kneazle as he clawed at the fringe.   
  
“Crookshanks, stop it!” she said, and he immediately did, giving the tapestry one last baleful glare (the tapestry’s occupant more than returned the look) before they moved on.  
  
It said something about the level of her sensitivity to change, that she felt it at the same time as the Kneazle, who was naturally attuned to such things as alterations in magic. It was a low hum in the back of her mind, at first, just a slight bit of discomfort on the fringe of her thoughts, but it slowly grew in intensity as she walked the halls, to near-unbearable levels, and she recognized it for what it was; power. Pure, unfiltered magical power. Goosebumps raised along her arms and the back of her neck, as the strange magic seemed to just barely brush against her own, prodding, sizing her up. The little touches to her senses were almost playful, in a strange, frightening way.   
  
She reacted by trying to shield herself, physically by drawing away from the source and gathering the magic to her, putting up a rather pitiful defense. She’d never taken up Occulmency, something she was deeply regretful of in this moment. Whatever this magic’s source was, it could only be sentient in the way that it seemed to flow over the surface of the shield, prying here and there at weaker points until little cracks formed, and it eventually shattered entirely.The strange magic recoiled at this, before seeping in, heavy and, she suddenly realized, _so very, very dark in nature,_ rolling over the surface of her skin in a strange, soft caress. She visibly shuddered even as Crookshanks took off with a yowl, for reasons unknown to her.  
  
This was not Albus Dumbledore’s magic--she’d felt his power and, while he had the potential, and while the slight taint of previous experimentations with that particularly strong brand of magic hung about him, they were old and nowhere near as strong. This power, whatever its source, was so great as to be considered nearly obscene.   
  
But there was an eerie curiosity to it, really, and as dark as it was, it didn’t seem openly hostile, though the potential, that potential to just crush her where she stood, was still there. It seemed to dance around her, poking and prodding at her in little, teasing steps even as she paced the castle halls, her speed increasing and decreasing as she tested the magic’s persistence.  
  
Her mind raced for what it could be. She knew, to some extent, that Hogwarts was...sentient. But not dark. Surely this ugly, heavy magic that seemed to cling to each surface it touched, would never mix with that of the school.   
  
There was also a ghost whose name she’d forgotten that had a bad reputation. But, then again, no ghost should be capable of such power. No, not at all. Ghosts were merely a reflection of their old selves that split upon a soul’s departure to the next life, shadowing their past and mourning their leaving. Nor was it demonic in nature, though as she, tentatively, reached back to the power’s source and stroked at its core, trying to discern its maker, it seemed to curl around that tendril of magic and hold it there, and there was a certain sense of vindictive pleasure at having trapped her, frozen momentarily, before she was again released.  
  
She was hyper aware of another yowl from Crookshanks from somewhere behind her, and the whispers of the portraits as she went back into motion. She forced her breathing to remain calm even as she felt more exposed and hunted than she had been since her run from Germany. She reached the main staircase and headed down, her flats moving ever and ever faster against the stone steps. Her fear instinct made her incapable of turning around, even as she planned to not go to her room. She didn’t want to give away the location of her safe place.   
  
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, however, she gathered her courage and looked back behind her. There, right there in the dim light at the top of the stair, she could see a hazy, humanoid figure, just outside of the torchlight. They both stopped, seeming to regard the other, before it turned around and walked back into the shadows.   
  
“It was human,” she whispered, eyes going wide as saucers.   
  
She hadn’t felt power like that since she’d felt Grindlewald Apparate within a few miles of her. And this, this person, more than rivaled the power of the fully-fledged Dark Lord, going so far as to surpass him entirely. Yes, there was someone dangerous walking the halls of Hogwarts, right along with her that night.   
  
And, she realized with a cold certainty, it had sized her up and found her _interesting._ She shuddered. Going back to her new room didn’t make her feel much safer, even as she threw up every single ward she knew of and some others that were only half-memorized that she really, really had to fight to remember around her room, because she knew that any human being with such obscene power would only ever pick them apart, piece by piece, if they really wanted to get inside. She hoped Slughorn wouldn’t throw a fit over the presence of so many wards and tell the other teachers, but even as annoyingly pompous as he was, she thought he might in some small way understand and leave her be. But this person, whoever they were, no. She would be seeing them again, be it sooner or later, and she was not looking forward to meeting face to face.   
  
Crookshanks hadn’t come back, and she had to admit that she was scared for her Kneazle...but as she lied down on her bed, shaking with terror, she knew she wouldn’t open her wards to let him in.   


* * *

It wasn’t until the following morning, that she managed to pull herself from the bed, having slept only fitfully and with many nightmares; nothing solid, but flashes of old, festering memories. She showered and got ready with a mechanical dullness that she hadn’t felt recently. Upon finally opening the door to her chambers, she found a note neatly placed before the door, written in exceedingly fancy handwriting.   
  
_Hermione, dear, I don’t know what possessed you to place such strong wards about your room, but I won’t prod you. I know that coming from such a background does mean one is quite sensitive to new environments, and I do hope that at the very least you will be able to acclimate yourself to this one, with time. It would please me greatly if you would join me for brunch in my study, and later today, perhaps, the other residents of the castle for dinner._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Horace Slughorn._

  
Well, at least this was a normal occurrence. She had a feeling he was being overly solicitous because he’d heard about her previous, extensive studies as well as her familial connections, but she couldn’t help but not find too much fault in that kindness. Even if he was being openly indulgent, perhaps at the idea of forming connections early on as it was implied was the Slytherin way, he didn’t seem to be particularly malicious, and she could appreciate that sort of open honesty about his intent, never bothering to hide what he wanted. That, more than anything, was what led her to walk down another flight to knock on his door and plaster on as real a smile as she could give, before the door swung open.  
  
“Good morning there, young lady! I was beginning to think you’d had a bit of a lie in or forgone the invitation, wot!” Slughorn announced boisterously, “Come, come, right on in, I had the elves bring down a few good bits from the kitchen, thought it might be a bit more comfortable that way than popping up to the Great Hall and raiding the other teacher’s dishes for the prime pastries. You know how house elves are, indulgent little things when you’re on their good side, yes?”   
  
She nodded, not exactly certain which of his many quick statements to respond to. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m sorry for almost missing it. Yesterday was a long day for me.”  
  
He continued to beam even as he nodded sympathetically, offering her a plush but obviously expensive seat near his fireplace. “Of course, completely understandable, my dear. Not right, those old bags, throwing a girl such as yourself into a situation such as this and just expecting you to be perfectly alright with it,” he said, pouring a bit of brandy into his tea and mixing it before taking a sip. Pausing momentarily, he glanced up at her like a cat caught with the cream. “Ah...I won’t tell if you won’t, my dear,” he chuckled nervously.   
  
“Don’t worry, Professor, I wouldn’t do that. You’ve been kind, and I appreciate that,” she said, feeling like she was putting on a mask of being collected even as she felt she was even more torn up than she’d been upon her arrival.   
  
“Oh thank you so very much my dear, here, have a seat, have a seat,” he offered, hurrying about the small little table in the center of his quarters to pull her seat out for her, before returning to his own. It was a comfortable little setup; his rooms were more spacious than she’d first expected, and seemed to be set up to hold a good deal of company at a moment’s notice, with many plush chairs scattered about upon an enormous, ornate Indian rug, and the wall was hung with an enormous amalgamation of old photographs that seemed to range over the course of his career. She found herself staring at them absently, before she bothered to glance at the seat.   
  
“Hector Dagworth-Granger, your great grandfather,” Slughorn said with pride as she peered at an oddly-familiar old man beaming as he shook a much-younger Slughorn’s hand, “Met him in my younger years, I did. All the others are old acquaintances, friends, pupils. I like to keep in contact, you see, watch them grow.”   
  
“I can understand that,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I think, as a teacher, it’s normal to take pride and interest in the people you’ve helped develop.” Honestly, she hoped they turned to less tedious topics soon.  
  
He seemed enormously pleased at her assessment. “Quite right, quite right indeed.” With that said he plopped back into his chair and began heaping apple crumble onto his plate, along with a goodly amount of eggs and bangers. “Come come dear, help yourself, wouldn’t want you to fall ill again now,” he said, ushering her back to her seat.   
  
Hermione stood a bit straighter at hearing this. “I wasn’t aware that people knew of my, erm, situation.”  
  
Slughorn’s face fell slightly, overcome by a darker look. “Yes well, not many are. Some of my many young colleagues worked directly with your father you know, naturally I’d heard about this bright little witch who was making a bit of a splash in the theoretics field over in Germany from a few friends. Was deathly frightened for you when I heard about the attack, my dear, and I am terribly sorry that I could do little to help you in that situation. Really none of us knew where you were, or what happened, or if you were even still alive to speak of. Ugly business right now, Germany. A good number of my friends have gone into hiding, since the old bastard’s closed all cross-border apparition...nasty business, nasty business indeed,” he said darkly, swirling the contents of his tea cup before downing the lot. “But I’m glad that you are well, and that you are here now, and out of his reach.”   
  
_And into the claws of something else,_ she thought, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Still, she was somewhat surprised by this new information, that there had been people outside of her own family, who had worried for her. Though still it made sense; before everything fell to pieces it had been a common thing, for one of her teachers to greet her one last time, give her one last lesson before they themselves disappeared into obscurity, hiding from Grindelwald. They often left her with gifts, books, bits of the research she had aided with, as if hoping to leave some piece of themselves behind for her to learn from in their place.  
  
And, she thought with pride, she had gotten most of those things when she’d gone on the run.  
  
She looked down at her tea, ashamed to feel her eyes grow a bit wet. “I don’t know what to say. I’m grateful that people were even aware of what had happened to my family.”   
  
“Of course we knew,” Slughorn said, dabbing at his own eyes surreptitiously, “And you’re here now, you’re safe. We will do all that we can, to make sure that remains so. Those in my field owe you and your father that, at the very least. I couldn’t imagine such a bright young star being squashed in the war. The last muggle one was ugly enough on its own...all those lives lost, futures ruined...” his lips trembled slightly as he set down his tea cup and began to dig into his food, more seemingly to distract himself than to assuage his hunger.  
  
Her hands shook as she set down her tea cup. “War is a terrible thing. I’m not sure if you knew, but I traveled on foot to get here. It’s as if the world went grey everywhere the fighting touched.”   
  
The blood seemed to drain from his face at this new information, but to Hermione’s surprise he kept his composure entirely. “I can’t even begin to imagine how much of a struggle that was, my dear. If there is anything, anything at all I can do for you while you are under our care, or even after you graduate, just let me know and I’ll hop to it.”   
  
“Honestly, Professor, I am grateful for your respect. Most people want to pretend it didn’t happen, or treat me like I’m still a child,” she said, and she cursed herself inwardly at being unable to keep the tremor from her voice as she said this, but Slughorn paid it no mind.   
  
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, we are teaching all those who come within our walls and guiding them into adulthood. It is only natural that, as they will be expected to act and be treated as adults upon leaving, we treat them with equal respect while they are here as well. You are no less capable because of your age, my dear, and some people do unfortunately have a tendency to stick with what they know of you, when some time has passed since they last met.”   
  
Hermione nodded. “Yes, I haven’t been to Britain in almost a decade.”  
  
“It must have been strange, then, coming here again. Come now girl, if you don’t eat something I’ll be serving it up myself. I know for a fact you haven’t been down to the kitchens yet,” he chuckled.   
  
She obliged him, taking some of the little pastries from their tiered porcelain dish.   
  
“So, any questions at all about the school, mm?” Slughorn asked, slathering a piece of toast with jam.   
  
“Well, actually, I wondered if there are any other students here besides me. I knew the castle would be empty, but not this empty,” she lied.  
  
“Occasionally yes, we do have a few students that stay over during Christmas. This year it’s only Edward Belby and Tom Riddle. Belby’s sister came down with the dragon pox and his parents didn’t want him to get it, so he’s the only Slytherin here right now. Riddle, unfortunately, is a Hufflepuff, and Odagon, that’s their head of house, is out visiting a sick relative so he’s entirely alone this Christmas. Bright boy, Riddle is, it’s such a shame he doesn’t have family to go back to. Nobody should be alone at this time of year.”   
  
So, two possible suspects--one a Slytherin, and thus making him a good candidate, and the other, a Hufflepuff orphan. She would have empathized if she didn’t have him on her list as possibly one of the most dangerous people she’d sorta-met. Then again, given Hufflepuff’s reputation, it was most likely Belby.   
  
“I understand,” she said, letting the slightest hair of her own sadness shine through her mask. “It should be a time to be with...family.” She closed her eyes, holding back fake tears that threatened, momentarily, to become very real. It was the second Christmas without her parents, but it seemed even worse than last year because she had been distracted with surviving. She and the other refugees who had been attempting escape at the time, the only little bit of celebration they’d had was to steal a bit of bread and meat from a muggle town, and curl up around a smokeless fire telling stories of happier times, before Grindelwald. She hadn’t participated, by that point almost entirely mute except for when she had to fiercely spellcast, but the stories had been sweet, beneath their bitterness.  
  
“Yes, yes indeed,” Slughorn agreed, pushing back his plate and pouring himself another cup of tea before offering some to her as well.   
  
“What are they like, Belby and Riddle?” she asked  
  
Slughorn blinked at her, mildly surprised at her show of interest. “Ah well, Belby’s a good enough boy as they come, keeps to himself a good bit. Pegged for Quidditch Captain next year, he is, and should be leading us to the House Cup,” Slughorn said with a wide smile. “Tom, though...well, I must say I’m a wee bit envious he’s not in my house.”  
“Oh? Why is that?”   
  
“He’s quite the young genius, really, much like yourself. Excels in every area he puts his mind to. Has the whole of Hufflepuff under his thumb, though, he does,” Slughorn chuckled a bit at this. “They all look up to him because he’s the strongest among the lot. He’ll probably be head boy next year, if all is well.”   
  
Well, that changed her perspective. Intelligent, talented, and a leader...all signs pointing towards a rising Dark Lord, combined with what she’d felt.  
  
“He’s taking a good number of core classes but has piled on the electives, this year. I daresay you’ll have him in a good number of your classes, since Slytherin is paired mostly with Hufflepuff this year after a few too many incidents of Gryffindor and Slytherin rivalry. Pity, that is. Bravery and cunning go well together. But he’s in the same year as you, so I’m sure you’ll be seeing one another a good bit.”   
  
Seeing a lot of one another? Well, her morning wasn’t starting out too brightly.   
  
He chuckled. “Not to mention he’s one of my young stars in my little club, the Slug Club. We get together every couple of months and I bring some of my best and brightest old students for you all to meet. Good opportunity, it is. I do hope you will be in attendance as well, if you’re feeling up to it.”   
  
Hermione thought about refusing, at first, because she could barely handle the thought of classes and minimal socialization, let alone networking. But he seemed like a good ally in her corner, and she didn’t want to alienate him. “Of course. I’ll do my best to attend.”  
  
“Very good, then!” Slughorn beamed at her, “Will we be seeing you at dinner, then, tonight as well?”   
  
“Yes, I’ll be there,” she said, knowing she couldn’t go into hiding forever.   
  
“Wonderful!” he said, grinning widely. “Now remember, if you need anything at all you’re more than welcome to knock, doesn’t matter the time of day or night. I’m afraid I have a meeting to get to in the next hour so I’ll have to be going, but this was quite the enjoyable occasion!”   
  
Hermione gave the pleasantries required for excusing herself and leaving, soon finding herself back in the stairwell. She felt at a bit of a loss for what to do, so she thought about what she would have done if she’d been on the run with the other refugees.  
  
When she’d been trailed, in France and Germany, she’d often returned the favor. The best way to deal with an enemy was to learn as much about them as you could, and then use the information to your advantage at the opportune moment. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It may be what was best, if she went to dinner and followed him some short while after, just to see, just to make sure, because the idea of any one human being, especially one as young as her own age, possessing that much raw magical potential, was frightening. Yes, that would be it. Now though, she could perhaps go to the library that Redge had mentioned some days previous, before dropping her off at the school. It would do her well to learn its location quickly. And even better, to walk among the various old tomes and books and perhaps find a few other useful spells to layer her room.  
  
According to Uncle Redge, it was on the third floor...She headed up the stairs to the first floor, and then to the main staircase to walk up the next two flights. 

* * *

The library entrance itself looked promising; two heavy oak doors, carved with various reliefs of old wizards and ancient stories, set in an ornate frame that, at the very top, read ‘Hogwarts Library’ in bold letters. Slipping through, her eyes met a beautiful sight; enormous stacks of bookshelves seemed to go on endlessly, some stretching to three or four times her own height, or even more. A small smile curved at her lips. She’d found her place, in this school, and it was between these shelves, trailing her fingers over ancient volumes and spellbooks as she basked in the silence.   
  
It wasn’t until she’d reached the fifth row of books, that she felt it. That overwhelming, almost cloying atmosphere of magic that had hung about her the night previously. Apparently she wasn’t the only person enjoying the library. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, before continuing onward toward the source of that power, stopping only a few shelves away, out of sight. To approach, or...   
  
Hermione allowed her own magic to reach out, sliding over the books in a gentle caress, searching for the epicenter. She was unpleasantly surprised when the magic seemed to tug at her own, as if urging her forward.Against her better judgement, she followed its will and found herself a few shelves down. Syhe walked through a metal, grated area, ignoring the ‘Restricted Section’ sign and looking down to the end of the row where a distant, shadowed individual had buried themselves in a nook that seemed to be comprised entirely of books.   
  
She made her way down the row step by step, and the nook’s occupant shifted, a dark head of neatly-combed hair lifting to reveal soft gray-blue eyes and thin lips, as he bit the lower one, in the middle of turning to the next page. Below that, a Hufflepuff crest accompanied a perfectly-shined prefects badge. And under his book, much to her dismay, sat a mass of reddish fur that could only be Crookshanks, and she could hear him purring contentedly, the little traitor.   
  
She carefully retracted her magic, and this caused him to look in her direction. Raising a finger to his lips, a wide smile curling beneath it, he motioned for silence, and returned to the book before him.   
  
His clear, obvious dismissal infuriated her, or at least until he made a slight motion with said finger and several piles of books scooted to the side, opening up a space on the floor directly beside him. He glanced up again, a neutral smile on his face, almost testing her to see how she would react to his wandless, nonverbal magic.  
  
Not to be outdone, she did the same, only rather than opening up a spot next to him, it was across from him, a much safer position.   
  
“Fair enough,” he chuckled, his voice a quiet, sinuous tenor that seemed to slide beneath her skin.   
  
She dearly wished that Edmina had bought her pants as she sat down, curling her legs awkwardly to the side. Even with the thick, woolen stockings that were part of the compulsory uniform, she felt horribly exposed. Even, with the fact that her tightly-buttoned blouse obscured the most obvious scars, save those that encircled her neck and trailed down over the backs of her hands. But the ones on her legs couldn’t be completely hidden, even beneath the stockings, their raised edges showing through the thin fabric that stretched over them, baring ‘whore’ written in german on her lower leg to the boy opposite her.   
  
She saw his eyes dart to the scars, and then quickly return back to her face. But there was no emotion, revulsion, or any other sort of reaction in his eyes or face--except an almost clinical curiosity. _Lack of empathy,_ she noted silently, her skin going cold. Not a good sign, in one as obviously powerful as the young man before her.   
  
Crookshanks uncurled himself from the boy who could only be Tom Riddle’s lap, padding his way over to Hermione’s. He seemed like he wanted her to pet him, but she just stared down into his big yellowed eyes.   
  
“So this is your cat then, I’d assume,” Tom said, his politeness masking a teasing tone, eyes dancing in amusement.   
  
“Yes,” she said, even as Crookshanks meowed quietly in disappointment at her unsaid disapproval and butted his head against her arm.   
  
“He seemed to enjoy clawing his way up my leg, yesterday,” Riddle said conversationally. “It wasn’t until you’d left that he calmed down. He seems quite protective of his mistress.” Tom reached out then, across the cramped space between them, to scratch between Crookshanks’ ears.   
  
Feeling slightly mollified at Crookshanks’ defense of her, she stiffened as his hand came close enough to almost brush her arm. She glanced over at him and found he hadn’t been paying attention to Crookshanks at all--just her.    
  
“Do I frighten you?” he asked, his tone almost curious, but dissociated from any emotions that would be attached from such rejection, small as it was.   
  
“That’s an interesting question to ask, considering we’ve just met,” she retorted, not giving him a real answer.   
  
“Well yes I suppose, but you’re not particularly _like_ most others I’ve met, so unique meetings call for equally unique outlooks upon what is considered ‘polite conversation’,” he said teasingly.   
  
“I’m not so different.”  
  
“You and I both know that’s a flat-out lie,” he said cooly. “You noticed me the moment I was within range. Even beyond any suppression of my magic. You’re different,” he reaffirmed, eyes meeting hers cooly and daring her to try and lie to him again, no matter how slight of a lie.   
  
She shrugged, as it wasn’t a question and it didn’t require a real response. She had no intention at all of giving him free information if she could help it. He seemed to take this in stride, and after watching her in uncomfortable silence for nearly a full minute, allowed his eyes to drift back to his book, flipping the page that had remained caught between his fingertips. She was about to get up and leave, dragging Crookshanks with her if she had to, before he spoke again.  
  
“Enjoying Hogwarts, at all? It must be very different here, from Germany.”   
  
“With the snow, you’d barely know the difference,” she said. She wasn’t terribly taken aback by his assumption--her accent and the scarred german profanities that decorated her legs clearly gave her away. “And I was, until someone stalked me through the halls and kidnapped my cat.”  
  
“Kidnap your cat?” he said, holding back a laugh. “I did no such thing, it kept following me around and glaring at me all night, even after I went back to my own dorm. I even found him there the next morning, waiting. Persistent little bugger, he is.”  
  
“Most people would be more concerned at being called a stalker over a cat snatcher,” she said, noting what he’d picked out as important in her last statement to respond to.  
  
“Oh come now, you can’t fault me for being curious, can you?”   
  
“I can, actually, and I plan to,” she said dryly, not amused to be essentially his curiosity project to relieve the boredom of the hols.  
  
He leaned back against the book stacks, the book falling loosely in its lap to its open page. “Have I done something to offend you, in a past life, Miss...”  
  
“No need to think about a past life considering-”  
  
“Considering what?”  
  
“Following a new girl who clearly wanted to be alone, and purposefully keeping to the shadows to avoid being spotted. I’m pretty sure they put your name next to the definition of creepy.”   
  
“Well.” He closed his book, laying it neatly to the side. “What was I supposed to think, then, with a strong, _old_ magical presence wandering about the halls that I had never sensed before, and us being in the middle of a war where spies _have_ tried to infiltrate the castle before, mm? It’s my duty to protect this place, and I needed to figure out if you were a threat. _Are_ you?”   
  
“Just because someone wears the uniform of a student doesn’t mean they’re not a spy,” Tom said cooly, and a shiver went up her spine, about the implication held behind those words. _There was a spy, here, in the school._  
  
“Why would you tell me this?”  
  
“I’ve never met someone I didn’t have the capability to hide from,” Tom relented after a moment of thought. “And I would rather we not be enemies,” he said quietly, fiddling absently with the ring on his left hand.   
  
Hermione paused, thinking of what to say carefully. “We don’t have to be, but there’s a lot of social room besides ‘not being enemies.’ I get the feeling you wouldn’t offer without some plan.”  
  
“My plan,” he said, “Is that I would rather not be noticed by Grindelwald.”   
  
Hermione couldn’t suppress her surprised laugh, and she quickly quieted it down. “You think I’m a German spy? I assure you, that’s the last thing I am.”  
  
“Good to know then, at least, that the only person aware of my...ability, shall we say, isn’t on the side of one who would probably snuff me out, if he knew of my existence,” Tom chuckled, offering a small, thin smile.   
  
Her thoughts turned to Albus Dumbledore. He was powerful. She was surprised he hadn’t sensed this boy’s obvious magical presence as well.   
  
“Something on your mind?” he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.   
  
“Nothing important,” she said, and it was true. She wouldn’t go to Dumbledore even if he did know.  
  
He gave her a look that said he was rather certain that wasn’t the case, but let it slide, readjusting his position on the floor to get more comfortable. “I don’t believe I ever caught your name,” he said after a moment. “I’m Tom Riddle, though I have a feeling you already knew that. Slughorn does like to boast, doesn’t he?”   
  
She strangely felt protective of the jolly, rather harmless fellow. “I’ve only interacted with Professor Slughorn twice. And I’m...” she started, and it felt like a very dangerous move to give him her name, even though logically she knew he’d inevitably find out anyway. “Hermione Granger.”  
  
He smiled pleasantly. “Well then, I hope it is a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”   
  
She gave him a look that clearly said their meeting was not mutually pleasant in the least. Then again, looking at him now she could see that this was true for him as well, as there was a slight tenseness to the way he held himself, as if entirely prepared should she choose to attack. It was strangely reminiscent of herself, really. It was a comfort to know that he did not think he could easily outmatch her.   
  
After a few moments, Hermione glanced behind her just long enough to pick a book out at random. _Obscure Potion Ingredients For The Intrepid Wizard or Witch,_ the title read. Frowning slightly, she flipped it open to a random page.   
  
A loud, achingly-high-pitched wail filled the air, and she snapped it shut quickly. Tom smirked at her from opposite. “Some of them scream, unless you open them right. This is the Restricted Section, by the way, so don’t tell anyone I’m letting you break school rules by not having a pass. Of course, you could always simply say you didn’t know, if you were caught.”   
  
Not to be outdone by a book, she quickly did a bit of wandless magic, whispering the High German under her breath. When she opened it up again, it did not scream, but whispered spells to her from the pages. When she looked up, she saw that Tom was looking at her. She had, obviously, caught his attention yet again.   
  
“You’ve clearly dealt with books like this before,” he said after a moment where they simply stared at one another.   
  
“My father was a researcher, he dealt with ancient magic a lot.” Well technically, it had been her to do that extra bit of opening the books for him every time, but she didn’t want to reveal all of her cards.   
  
“Interesting,” he murmured, glancing back down to his book. She could practically see the questions behind his eyes, but he kept his silence. “What sort of research, then? That’s an awfully specific bit of magic to know, after all, since it deals with dulling the effects of dark spells.”   
  
“Random esoteric freelance projects. You’re aware of the spell, then?” she asked, wondering if she could learn a bit about just how much he might know.  
  
“I like learning obscure bits of magic. It makes things a bit more interesting, and you never know when some random spell that most everyone else ignores may come in handy,” he said simply.   
  
She didn’t want to admit that she agreed with him. There had been many occasions where her extensive knowledge had helped her surprise her enemies. “I’m somehow not surprised.”  
  
He smiled, eyes drifting back down to his book as he again fiddled absently with his ring before turning the page. “Any particular field of interest to you?” His question seemed to be out of simple curiosity, but she knew he was sizing her up, looking for what she was good at, and where her education fell a bit short. Somewhere in the back of his mind, she knew he still thought her to be a potential threat.   
  
_All of them? Anything that will help me survive?_ “I like learning, so that’s a difficult question to answer.” She reached over to pet Crookshanks, who looked like he was dropping off to sleep.    
  
“Hm,” he smiled slightly. “Well, what classes are you taking?”   
  
“To be honest I don’t know, I haven’t been given a schedule yet. Slughorn showed me where all of the core course rooms are, though.”   
  
“Huh. Well aren’t you going to choose them yourself?”   
  
She shrugged. “No one has approached me about my class choices.”  
  
He frowned, and muttered, “Negligence is a common habit in the wizarding world, after all.” Speaking a bit louder, he said, “I can list them out for you, if you like, or you could go directly to Slughorn about it and he’ll deal with Dippet.”   
  
“You aren’t wizardborn?” she asked, surprised. The number of Dark Lords that were Muggleborn could be counted on one hand--and that was in all of the history that she knew, worldwide.  
  
His head snapped up at this. “My father was a muggle,” he said carefully.   
  
“I see,” she said, realizing, with some surprise, that he might think her a prototypical Slytherin pureblood. The thought almost amused her. “A person’s bloodline isn’t of any particular concern to me. Just surprised.” It was by far the nicest thing she’d done during this whole conversation, and it was distinctly odd to not be verbally defensive or offensive against him.  
  
He stared at her openly. “You’re strange, for a Slytherin,” he said finally, “Most would lambast me for my mother’s choices like it was my fault.”   
  
“As if who your parents are is any concern to anyone outside of your family. It’s preposterous, the whole concept.”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed, seeming to sit up a bit straighter. “Yes it is. Did you know that there hasn’t been a single British minister in all of history, who wasn’t a pureblood?”   
Now _this_ was a surprise. Apparently this was a soapbox issue for him. “I wasn’t aware, but it doesn’t surprise me.” The fact that her great-grandfather had almost been made Minister of Magic she didn’t mention.  
  
“Half-bloods can only hold minor offices, though they can be aurors. Muggleborns aren’t included at all. All heads of office are purebloods. The government is _owned_ by those of blood status, and they automatically have influence over whatever laws are passed.”    
  
“Backed by faulty logic about tradition and secrecy issues. Germany isn’t any different.”  
  
“The other Slytherin’s aren’t going to like you at all, if you talk like that,” he said, his words teasing. It was as if this one bit of information, that she lacked the prejudices of her house, had suddenly opened a new door for her, into his personality and views, and suddenly he seemed almost relaxed.   
  
“But yes, I’d think you’re right...especially considering who is currently in power, there,” he said, eyes narrowed.   
  
She didn’t want to talk about Grindlewald. Talking about him brought back too many memories of just _how close_ she’d been to having personally met him--and the end of his wand.Tom seemed to sense her discomfort, and leaned away. “Well either way it will be something to look out for. Anyone who openly shows themselves to be a ‘blood traitor’ is vilified in Slytherin, and to be in the house yourself...just watch your back.”   
  
“As if I’d care what they think of me,” she said, almost disdainfully.   
  
“Well be that as it may, they will care. And they will try to hurt you for it, wherever they can get away with it.”   
  
She wasn’t concerned with whatever petty curses the children of these pompous, lazy purebloods would dish out at her. “I’ll manage, I guess,” she said, not wanting to give away just how little she regarded the potential ‘threats.’  
  
Still, her dismissal didn’t go unnoticed, though he changed the subject. “What was it like in Germany, before Grindelwald?”   
  
She stiffened, her hands, which had been uselessly holding the book, gripped it painfully tight. The book itself protested, whining and vibrating beneath her fingertips.  
  
“It’s been so long that I almost don’t remember,” she lied, not going to dig past all of the worry, anxiety, and white noise within her head to remember who she’d once been and how she had once felt. He could call her on her lie all he wanted--she would budge less than a boulder.  
  
He seemed to pick up on her discomfort almost instantaneously, and his eyes flicked just below her own, to the scars ringing her neck, then back to hers. “My condolences, I shouldn’t have pried.”   
  
“I’ll accept that apology for exactly how much it is worth,” she said, keeping her voice completely neutral.  
  
“Right,” he said awkwardly, glancing back to his book as if searching for answers for how to fix his misstep. “How is Britain, then, now that you’re here?” he asked slowly, seeming to test the waters, and make sure she hadn’t recoiled entirely from all conversation.   
  
“It’s changed quite a bit,” she said. “I haven’t been here since I was a young girl.”  
  
“It must be,” Tom said, “I know London has become almost unrecognizable in the past few years.”   
  
“You’re from London, then?” she asked, though not surprised. He didn’t seem like a country boy at all.  
  
“In a sense. I don’t get out as much as I’d prefer to, over the summers, though,” he said absently.   
  
She had a feeling that there was something unspoken, there, though she wouldn’t have known if Slughorn hadn’t mentioned that he didn’t have family. “Sounds like your holidays are boring, then.”  
  
“Well there is a reason I am here, this Christmas, and not in London,” he said quietly, leaning back against the bookshelf.   
  
He’d know if she lied, as he’d evidently shown throughout their conversation, but she didn’t want to disclose that she’d pumped Slughorn for information. Rather than react, she would have to give. Damn.  
  
“I was in London as well,” she said. “I can’t say that I’m terribly upset about missing out on the festivities.”  
  
His lip curled. “Oh, there are festivities. A good few of the teachers remain here over Christmas and winter break, and attendance for meals that day is compulsory. It’s quite the party,” he said dully.   
  
Hermione let out a deep, full-bodied sigh. “I wonder if I can fake getting lost.”  
  
“Maybe I could fake going to look for you,” he teased, reaching past her to pet Crookshanks once more. The Kneazle purred in his sleep and curled closer to Hermione’s side. “Anything to get out of that mess.”  
  
“Find your own escape,” she said, annoyed that her cat’s fraud detector was clearly broken for him to be liking him so much.   
  
“Oh come now that isn’t fair, we could actually help each other.”   
  
“You must really hate it, to allow yourself to sound so desperate.”   
  
“Let’s just say Slughorn starts singing his _own_ version of Christmas carols when he’s been into the wine a bit.”   
  
“Merlin,” she said, not wanting to try to imagine it.   
  
“Exactly.” Tom stated. “If you’re willing to risk it then I’m willing to back you up as well,” he said flatly. “One Christmas without having to deal with that lot would be a godsend.”   
  
“Leave me alone and I will,” she said, wa  
  
“Then we have a deal,” Tom said, extending his hand.   
  
She frowned, suspicious. “That was too easy of an agreement from you.” This guy was slicker than oil. “Are you sure you’re not secretly a Slytherin?”   
  
His face twisted oddly as if he found that strangely amusing, and he grinned. “No, quite sure that the crest on my robe is Hufflepuff, thank you very much.”   
  
“Well, that hat seems like it might be suffering from some magical dementia. I thought you were supposed to be the nice house.”  
  
Tom snorted. “Everyone underestimates Hufflepuff.”   
  
“Convenient, I’m sure,” she said before she thought about it.Tom merely directed a smirk at her, one that said that yes, yes indeed it was.  
  
With that, her desire to get away was renewed with vigor, and she stood sharply as she scooped up the sleeping kneazle into her arms. His gaze rose with her. “Something wrong?” he asked curiously.   
  
“People who manipulate others will undoubtedly manipulate you,” she said, and used her fingers to awkwardly put the book back in its proper spot with wandless magic. The more specific and detailed the movement, the harder it was to do.  
  
He noticed, but didn’t comment. “I’m not your enemy yet, Hermione.”   
  
“I didn’t realize that we were on a first name basis.”  
  
“Fine then, Miss Granger,” he said coldly, and she could _see_ him closing back in on himself after the break in his compsure.  
  
“Good day, Riddle. This was a rather enlightening conversation,” she said, her words clipped.   
  
He regarded her in silence, giving no response, and for that split second she saw her own wariness echoed in him. But she couldn’t sympathize or empathize with this young man who held enough power to crush her and probably have enough left to whisk away all possible evidence. She turned around and headed out of the Restricted Section, feeling like there was a target on her back the whole way out.

  


 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three  
  
Hermione spent the rest of the day outside after she had gone to her room and grabbed a thick woolen cloak. She felt slightly trapped in the castle, even if she didn’t think that Riddle would harm her--yet. Crookshanks had gone back to sleep as soon as she’d set him on her bed, and so she made her way alone across the grounds. Slughorn had been right about it being beautiful, but she didn’t appreciate it as much as she once might have. She’d had enough of living outside in the cold, curling against many others in a tight ball despite her intense aversion to touch, just to stay alive, to completely disenchant her of the beauties of nature.   
  
She knew from her reading that the forest she saw not far from the school was the Forbidden Forest, and it was obvious from the name alone that she was not allowed to venture there. However, she meandered around the lake, absently identifying both normal and magical flora around its banks, before she saw that it was growing dark. She would have to go inside for dinner, as she’d promised Slughorn that she would do so. With an inelegant groan that would have dismayed her aunt, she raked a hand through her short hair and turned back towards the castle. Each step felt as if her legs had been weighed down with lead. Meeting Riddle had done nothing but make her even more wary of him, wondering how much of what he had said had been genuine. She felt like he was made up of many different possible layers, and he only allowed you to see exactly what it was he wanted you to see.  
  
Still, he was strange, for one so dark. He became impassioned, vibrant, when discussing the troubles that those who were not pure of blood experienced in wizarding society. Perhaps this was to be his cause, his rallying point? But where would that lead? An opposing extermination of all old wizarding families, much as Grindelwald was systematically murdering all muggleborn who were of no use to him? She shuddered at the thought. Two warring Dark Lords, one young and one well-seasoned, going head to head on opposing views and tearing the world to pieces between them.  
  
The large, open double doors were open so she just walked in with just the slightest hesitation at theirr entrance, looking around to see where to sit. She was embarrassed that, upon seeing her, Slughorn immediately boomed out across the entire, empty hall.   
  
“Miss Granger, right up here!” he shouted cheerily, budging over another seat until he was squashed up by Dumbledore, leaving an open space for her...directly next to Tom Riddle. Riddle himself smiled with fake, disarming friendliness as Hermione forced herself over to the table.   
  
“It’s good to see you again, Miss Granger,” Tom said politely, moving his seat out to allow her to sit.  
  
“Ah, you’ve two met then?” asked Slughorn, seeming far too pleased but yet also saving her from having to return Riddle’s politeness.  
  
“Yes, in the library,” Tom said, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice and smiling at her as she took her seat. “We had quite the interesting conversation about old magic and politics.”   
  
She felt downright claustrophobic sandwiched between the two men, even despite the few inches between them. Not to mention that Riddle’s magic was even more overwhelming up close, even though, oddly enough, it seemed...somehow, less powerful. With a jolt, she realized he was suppressing it.   
  
“Ah, yes,” she said stupidly even as Slughorn turned to her, clearly wanting to hear from her as well. “It was quite the discussion.”  
  
Tom smirked into his cup at this, though it was carefully hidden.   
  
“Marvelous indeed! I thought you two might get along well, should you chat,” he said, smiling even as he turned back to his food. More than a bit relieved, she began putting food on her own plate, hoping that if she ate then perhaps no one would think to engage her in conversation.   
  
“Professor,” Tom said, turning and looking past Hermione to Slughorn. “Miss Granger mentioned that she didn’t have her schedule, for the upcoming term.”  
  
Maybe if she shoved one of the nearby rolls in his mouth he would choke and she could live her life at Hogwarts in peace. She stabbed her meat with slightly more gusto than necessary.   
  
“Oh goodness, I can’t believe we haven’t taken care of that yet,” Dippet sputtered, “I’m sorry my dear girl I’ve just been so very busy as of late; the Christmas season, you know, lots of things to do and a good deal of paperwork to catch up on...”   
  
“Lucky we’ve got Tom about to keep us in check, eh?” Slughorn boomed, and Hermione was sure he would have reached over and given Tom a pat on the back hard enough to send him into the plate before him, were she not in the way.   
  
“Oh it was no trouble at all, Professor, I just thought it should be taken care of sooner rather than later, so that Hermione knows where all of her classes are before term starts. Perhaps I could show her where each room is, once her schedule is fully-formed?” he asked with a sweet smile that almost made her puke.   
  
Turning away so that no one else could see, she gave him a glare that could have raised the dead and frozen the entire castle twice over. It only made her even more angry when the vindictive, sarcastic gleam in his eyes was completely belied by the pleasant, open smile that graced his lips.   
  
Who were these professors and how were they so blind?   
  
“Taking our new student under your wing, then, Tom?” Dumbledore asked. She turned to him, and she was surprised to see, despite his smile, that the infuriating twinkle in his eyes was completely gone. _So Dumbledore has noticed the resident Dark Lord in the making, has he,_ she thought, considering the implications of this. Riddle had been almost concerned, wary that she would rat him out to someone. And the only person in this school that he could possibly be remotely concerned about was Dumbledore.   
  
She turned to Riddle, and saw momentarily that he returned Dumbledore’s gaze with a smile that barely reached his eyes. “I think she’s entirely capable of taking care of herself, actually, Professor, but it doesn’t hurt to point someone in the right direction.”   
  
“I see,” said Dumbledore, and she wondered if she were missing a piece of the puzzle because she felt like she’d just missed a coded message. “As a prefect, it certainly would be gracious of you to make sure she doesn’t get lost.”  
  
“I would never do any less than what is expected of me, Professor,” Riddle said, his words holding just the slightest chill. She could practically see the energy crackling between the two of them, clashing and rearing back even as they regarded each other with calm expressions. Quite frankly, she wished she were watching it from a safe distance and not directly in-between them.  
  
Slughorn gave a nervous laugh, as if he too could feel the tension. “Now now, that’s something to be discussed later then, yes? Hermione dear, feel free to drop by my office and we can plan your schedule before sending it to Dippet for approval. Quite good of Tom, to offer to show your classes. He knows the whole school like the back of his hand, he does,” he chuckled.  
  
She could feel Riddle’s amused gaze on her skin and she wished she could bat it away. “Of course, I’ll drop by soon. And I wouldn’t want to turn down anyone’s honest generosity.”  
  
Now there were two sets of eyes trained on her--because, glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dumbledore regarding her. Apparently he hadn’t missed the possible message laid in her words. And Riddle’s gaze had gone from amused to icy cold in a matter of seconds, even as his facial expression didn’t even change in even the smallest of increments.  
  
And oh god she did not want to be in the middle of this. It was like they were fighting over her, tooth and claw, and nobody could see it but her. She could feel the cotton rising up her throat to snuff out her voice, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes, each breath of air coming in and out slightly louder with each passing second, until they were practically gasps, and she stumbled up from the table with a barely-whispered “Excuse me,” before hurriedly making her way out of the hall, just fast enough to not be considered running.   
  
Riddle was out of his chair in an instant and it nearly tipped over in his determination to reach her even as she left, and she heard him follow behind her even as her pace quickened upon making it to the door, his footfalls heavy a short distance away.   
  
She mindlessly hurried down the winding hallway beyond the Great Hall until her breaths couldn’t come fast enough to keep up with her pace, and she collapsed just beyond the edge of the stair, gasping as she sat heavily upon the last few steps.  
  
For a time she simply sat, gasping as tears leaked from her eyes and she clutched her knees tightly to her chest, leaning over them and staring blankly ahead as she tried to force herself to just breathe, in and out, in and out. But it wasn’t working.   
  
She barely registered it when she saw Riddle seat himself beside her from the corner of her eye, only his feet and the hands hanging between his knees within her view.    
  
She saw him reach out to touch her in false comfort and, not even pausing to think, she reached for her wand and turned on him, aiming it directly up under his chin. One blast of a curse and she’d blow his face and brains away. She was shaking with the effort to not curse him and flee outright.  
  
“Miss Granger I’m only trying to help,” he said cooly, even as she thrust his wand against his jugular and he gagged a bit.   
  
“Bullshit,” she said softly and quietly. “When you saw my scars today, you literally felt nothing except clinical curiosity. I could practically see it when you looked, just picking it apart, as to exactly how I got them. I don’t believe in your false empathy.”  
  
Riddle barely moved for a moment, and then in one sharp lunge he had her on her back on the stairs with her wand pinned in her hand. He shoved her violently up against the banister, eyes cold. “You’re in my house now, don’t you dare think you can threaten me here and that I will do nothing about it,” he hissed, something deeper, strange, lacing beneath his words, and then he had released her and she dropped to sit on the stair, gasping, even as he leaned back against the rail as if nothing at all had happened.   
  
Unable to forget just what that had reminded her of, she was violently ill at his feet.  
  
His lip curled in disdain. “Scourgify.” The mess cleared, and Hermione wiped her mouth on her sleeve, coughing a bit. Riddle barely even seemed ruffled, the sharp, cold look replaced by one of disinterest. “Are you quite done?”   
  
“Yes. Next time I’ll aim better,” she said, angry at her weakness.  
  
“Going to try and kill me then, are you?” he asked, visibly amused.   
  
“Not what I was referring to, actually,”   
  
“Oh. Does that happen often, then?” he questioned, uninterested.   
“No.”  
  
“I hope that we understand each other, Granger,” he said after a moment of silence, “I am not your enemy, unless you push me to it. So don’t fuck with me, and I’ll stay out of your affairs.”   
  
“Until they interest you again,” she growled.   
  
He smiled then, broadly. She shuddered. “Oh, but you’ll always be just a bit interesting, Granger. You’re too unusual not to be. Funny, how you seem to have a habit of catching the eye of a Dark Lord no matter where you go, isn’t it?” he purred. “I wonder where that will get you, in the next few years.”   
  
“I have no idea why you think a teenage girl would be of any personal interest to Grindlewald.”  
  
“Oh don’t try and bullshit me, _Hermione_. You’re smart. You’re strong, and you have obviously innate knowledge of ancient spells that rarely see the light of day save to be used by _my_ sort. And you’re not afraid to use them. You’ve survived hell, Granger, though I don’t know what sort of hell it may have been.” Though, by the way he was looking at her scars, it was very clear that he would like to know.   
  
“Researcher, remember?”  
  
“Oh yes, but researching what, Granger, that you caught a Dark Lord’s interest?”   
  
She had nothing to say to that.   
  
“I think, Granger, that we understand one another relatively clearly, at this point?” It was more of a statement than a question, as he twirled his wand lazily between his fingers.   
  
“I think it’s _you_ who doesn’t understand. You may be be a Dark Lord, but I don’t die or give up easily.”  
  
“You don’t know me very well yet, Granger. I thoroughly _enjoy_ challenges.”  
  
“Let’s hope you aren’t a sore loser,” she said, her resolve hardening into steel. She tensed her body, ready to fight again. He was a Dark Lord, but she doubted he’d been in battle. .   
  
It was a slow thing, the laughter bubbling up from deep within, before bursting out into being. He leaned over on the banister, wand still pointed loosely in a way that could easily be switched to duelling posture. “Oh I like you,” he chuckled, “You’re going to be fun.”   
  
“I assure you, the sentiment isn’t mutual.”   
  
“I’m sure,” he said, grinning widely. The stairway jolted suddenly, and she grasped the rail tightly as it shifted.   
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” she snapped.  
  
“What are you talking about?” he questioned, annoyed, as the stair pulled away from its previous location. “Oh,” he laughed, “You didn’t know that the stairs like to rearrange themselves, mm? I’m sure you’ll be finding out all about the tricks of this castle soon enough, if you’re resilient enough to survive that long.” His eyes trailed over her scars, “And I have no doubt that you are.”    
  
“As you’ve already said,” she said. “You do like the sound of your own voice.” If she could keep up the sarcasm and defensiveness, she could go melt into a pile of terrified goo later.  
  
He took a step forward. Her wand raised sharply. He took another, and a curse flew from her wand, leaving a chunk of the stairs pulverized where he had been seconds before.  
  
He had fast reflexes too. Just peachy keen.  
  
“You’re not all talk. That’s wonderful news,” he said, a vindictive grin on his face as he looked away from the aftermath of her spell and back to her.  
  
“Glad to have my spellwork appreciated,” she retorted dryly. He took another step forward, and another spell flew. With a flick of his wand it was deflected, leaving a deep scorch-mark on the wall. He caught the next spell with his bare hand, and to her horror, absorbed it without effect, pulling it apart with his fingers even as she watched, the magic combining with his own and leaving only a blot of darkness behind within his palm that dissipated in the open air.  
  
“Are you having fun yet, Granger?” he questioned, teasing. “I haven’t had a good fight in ages, you know, not since Pickerson decided he was going to take down the Hufflepuff half-blood for being such an annoying prat.”   
  
“Sounds like he’s a good judge of character.”  
  
“He was a Slytherin bully and he tried to push me off the staircase below this one. Let’s say it didn’t end well for him,” he said cooly. “Nothing a bit of Skel-grow couldn’t fix after a few weeks, after all.”   
  
“Bully? I’d say that’s the pot calling the kettle black, but I think it’s more like the entire mine calling out the pot.”  
  
“You think I actively pursue fights?” he asked, “You’re the one who put your wand at my throat, Granger,” he hissed, “Congratulations. You have won my _undivided_ attention.”   
  
“If you had even an ounce of brains you would have guessed that I don’t deal with touch,” she said with a calmness that she didn’t feel.   
  
“And you think I care?” He looked almost bored at her words.  
  
“No, but you can’t say ‘I started it’ as if you can’t help but be an obnoxious prat.”  
  
“What can I say, then, Granger? You have a habit of drawing the wrong sort of attention to yourself, don’t you? If those scars are anything to judge by...”   
  
“Your fascination with my scars is downright bizarre,” she said, though she had a feeling he might because he wished, on some level, to have done it himself.   
  
“It takes someone _strong_ to withstand that kind of pain,” he said, his eyes widening fractionally as a genuine smile spread across his lips, terrifying in this context. “It’s interesting, to have a peer that might actually not be weaker and less resourceful than myself.”  
  
“Feel free to find another suitable peer to pick at.”  
  
“Oh but you see, that’s the problem, _Hermione_ , you’re the only one that’s actually presented any sort of fight,” he purred as the stair ground into its new position. Lightly, he stepped forward until she was practically leaning halfway over the rail, catching her by the collar of her blouse and hauling her back until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I’m looking forward to picking you apart, should you really decide to piss me off,” he whispered against her ear, and then he released her, and was calmly making his way down the stairs in the next moment, whistling absently as he twirled his wand and disappeared through the archway into another corridor.   
  
If she hadn’t thrown up her meal the first time, she definitely would have after his second physical contact with her person. As it was, she just collapsed bonelessly onto the floor, barely holding onto the banister and gasping for air. And she’d thought the energy between Riddle and Dumbledore had been frightening...but Riddle himself, when he wasn’t holding back (and he had been holding back, even there in the library, she realized that much now), was an unholy terror in himself.   
  
She couldn’t get up, not yet. Her strength had completely and totally left her. Eventually, she managed to curl in on herself just the slightest bit against the banister on a single step, burying her tearstained face against her knees as she shook. Thank god she hadn’t shown the full extent of her fear to him, or she would have died for certain.  
  
She heard footsteps coming down the hall, and she tried to pull herself up to get away but she wasn’t steady or fast enough to escape. Her foot caught on the next step, and she only managed to catch herself on the rail even as the footsteps quickened suddenly, taking the stairs two at a time. “Miss Granger---Miss Granger are you alright?”  
  
The voice belonged to none other than the other potential Dark Lord in the castle, and when he touched her, seeming to help steady her, she cried out in panic. “Don’t touch me!”   
  
Dumbledore recoiled, withdrawing his hand immediately, eyes wide, and his eyes no longer twinkling-blue. “I apologize, I did not mean to frighten you.”   
  
“Why is it everyone always tries to touch me?” she half-sobbed, cursing herself at being unable to keep her voice calm, “Like they think it’s going to help.”  
  
Dumbledore didn’t respond, but regarded her for a few moments as Hermione tried to stifle her sobs that were welling up.   
  
“Did something happen between now and when you hurried out of dinner?” he asked, his eyes seeming to betray his guess.  
  
She returned his gaze coldly, ignoring the tears running down her face. “And why would it matter to you, sir?”   
  
He looked hurt at her words. “Miss Granger, I only wish to help you.”  
  
“And just how,” she breathed, “do you plan to do that?”   
  
He sighed. “There are surely ways, Miss Granger, if you would trust me.”  
  
“I’m sure,” she bit out. “‘This will help you get over your scars’, ‘be quiet and don’t move, you’ll feel better after, you’ve done this before right?’, ‘this medicine is only to help you calm down my dear, don’t fight it’. Thank you,” she spat, “for the offer, but I think I’ve long since learned that the only person who can help me is myself. Good evening, Professor,” she said coldly, turning to make her way up the stairs once again and leaving Dumbledore standing behind, completely flabbergasted.   
  
She hurried away, and wandered around the halls until she found a familiar corridor where the portraits were almost recognizable, and from there she practically ran the rest of the way back to the entrance to her room, spouting her own new password and slipping inside. Finally, she collapsed even as she closed the door, curling up against it as the lock clicked into place.   
  
She shakily raised her wand and reinforced her wards even as Crookshanks came up, curling around her ankles and mewling at her. She scooped him up and hugged him almost painfully, but he didn’t react except to purr and meow at her questioningly. “Why does this always happen to me?” she sobbed into Crookshanks’ fur coat.

* * *

Hermione didn’t leave her room at all the next day, Christmas Eve or not. Quite frankly, her holiday gift to herself was to sit in her room with Crookshanks in her lap, scratching at his ears as she mulled over just how she was going to manage to survive the school year, if she could barely get through the holidays unscathed. She didn’t even want to consider that, should she survive even that, she’d have another year of Tom Riddle to look forward to directly after.

Christmas morning found her groggily cracking her eyes open at the sound of rustling at the foot of her bed. Alarmed, she immediately drew her wand and cast the first curse that came to mind. The house-elf dropped all of the presents that had been bundled in its arms with a shriek and tumbled to the floor, hands over its head in terror.   
  
“Oh no,” she said, a wave of guilt hitting her as she watched the house-elf quivering in terror on the floor. She pulled back the sheets and stepped onto the cold, stone floor, pausing only to put on her slippers. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were an attacker,” she said, crouching down next to the house-elf.  
  
The tiny little creature was shaking like a leaf even as he stood, gathering up the gifts he had been setting out at the end of her bed in the darkness of early morning, and neatly arranging them as best he could. “M-merry C-Christmas, M-miss,” he stuttered, hands clasped together tightly. “Has Disby been bad?”   
  
“No, not at all,” she said. “I was asleep and...well, I don’t react well to surprises anymore.”  
  
“Disby is sorry for startling Miss,” the elf said, “I should also be telling Miss that breakfast will be served at eight-o’clock directly in the Great Hall.”   
  
“Thank you, Disby,” she said, trying to give him a smile and failing miserably, her body shaking with adrenaline. The house-elf nodded before disappearing with a loud crack, scaring Hermione even as she’d seen it coming.  
  
Her room now empty and feeling much more awake than she wanted to be, Hermione closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths before turning back to the presents that had been laid out on her bed. She was surprised to see them, even as soon as she realized that she shouldn’t be--it would be out of character for Redge and Edmina to not send her a Christmas gift.  
  
Crookshanks dove at the pile suddenly, knocking the entire neatly-arranged stack over as he burrowed through it all, scratching at one gift with wild desperation, yowling loudly. “Crookshanks, no!” Hermione shouted, diving down and fishing the wild ball of fur out of her gifts and clutching him tighty in her arms. “Bad kitty,” she chided, depositing him on the bed. Crookshanks was instantly down among the gifts again, scratching and tearing at the same one.   
  
“Oh what am I going to do with you?” she growled, frustrated, picking him up and holding him long enough to allow her to look at the gift he had unearthed.   
  
It was a long, rectangular box, and the note attached read, “To Crookshanks, from your adoptive grandfather.” Raising an eyebrow, she wondered what on earth her grandfather had gotten her cat for Christmas. Or even why he’d bought her cat a Christmas present.   
  
Reluctantly, she took the gift and set it a far enough distance from the others that Crookshanks could continue opening it as he had before. Letting the cat free, he pounced at the gift, grabbing the box in all four paws and rolling over with it, scraping his claws through the wrapping and shredding it succinctly.   
  
“Well, no one can deny your intelligence, even if your fraud detector is broken,” she said, thinking of how he had looked so content in Riddle’s lap.  
  
Crookshanks meowed loudly at her as if to disagree, and continued scratching at the now-revealed box, though he couldn’t quite get through the sticking charms holding the box closed.   
  
“Here, let me help you,” she said, finally, and with a wave the sticking charm was gone.  
  
Crookshanks practically ripped the box to pieces within the next minute, tearing at it until it fell open and a good number of cat toys fell out, as well as a small, round little ball that vaguely smelled of herbs, which the cat immediately pounced on and began batting it about before gnawing at it, falling happily amid the mess of wrapping paper and shredded cardboard on his back.   
  
“Ah, catnip,” she said before she picked up the loose cat toys and put them on her desk, not sure exactly where to put them.   
  
Her kneazle gave a happy sound and padded over with the ball caught in his mouth, flopping down at her feet and rolling about as he played with it, covering her slippers in fur. She smiled fondly at him as she took one of her own gifts from the now haphazard pile.   
  
There were four in all, one each from Edmina and Redge, another from Slughorn, and, strangely enough, one labeled as being from Dumbledore.   
  
Her good mood was instantly gone, and she checked Dumbledore’s gift for every spell and curse imaginable. All came up negative, and tentatively she sat the gift down and regarded it, unblinking. Would he be able to disguise a curse, after all that? No, she had tried every revealing spell she knew, and some were ancient, so much so that most all wizards today wouldn’t be able to circumvent them well enough to hide any piece of unpleasant magic from her detection.  
  
With some obvious hesitancy, she undid the sticking charms on the wrapping paper, allowing the neat, brightly-colored tissue paper to fall to either side of the box as well as the box itself as it came apart, revealing a foe glass seated on her bedroom floor.   
  
Immediately it was clear that there were people in it--Tom Riddle being the most prominent and obvious, though she knew he was somewhere farther away in the castle because he was shadowed. If she’d seen his eyes clearly then she would know he was, probably, on the same floor she was.   
  
There were others, too, but it was hard to make them out--though the long haired and short bearded man in the front was clearly Grindlewald. She visibly shuddered--she had two Dark Lords in her foe glass, and they were the closest to her of any of the hazy figures in the background.   
  
It was somewhat depressing to realize just how many people were actually in the background, indistinguishable but clearly human-shaped. She turned the glass away, unable to look at it any longer, and turned to her other gifts. Edmina had, unsurprisingly, gotten her a new dress and a set of hair ribbons, and wrapped beneath it within the package was a book about how to embroider such fabrics as they were made of with protective runes, and how to assign other magical properties to the fabric. A small smile found its way to her lips at this as she ran a finger down the book’s spine, thinking that this was, indeed, so very much like her young aunt. Folded and sticking just out of the first page of the book, was a letter.   
  
_Dear Hermione,_  
  
 _I do hope you’re settling in alright. Redge tells me that I need to stop fretting but I can’t seem to help myself. I keep finding myself wondering if you’re eating alright, if you’re finding your way about the castle without trouble, if they’re treating you well enough. I hope I’m not pestering you by writing so soon, but I thought it would do well to write and wish you well on Christmas._  
  
 _I wish you were home with us, having dinner and opening gifts with those who are close to you and hold you dear in their hearts, but Redge tells me it’s for the best that you are at Hogwarts, settling in before the school term starts. Your grandfather has been asking after you, as well, and he insisted I send along his gifts and a few sweets as well (that man and his sweets, I swear!). Please don’t break your teeth on the treacle, he made it himself. That aside, we both wish you a happy Christmas, and though we are not together on this day we still send you our love and wish you all the joy in the world that there is to give._  
  
 _With love,_  
 _Mina_  
  
Redge’s gift was yet another book about protective wards and secrecy spells. The pages within it were ancient, but the binding was brand new, as if it had just been freshly-done, and by hand, by the looks of it. She smiled a bit as she flipped through the pages carefully, and yet another note fluttered to the floor by her feet.   
  
_Dear Hermione,_  
  
 _I hope you are settling in well at Hogwarts. This book may not have anything that you haven’t seen before, but here’s to hoping it’s useful to you nonetheless. I did a bit more research on that amulet; it will deflect minor curses and hexes that are tossed your way. Hope you have a Merry Christmas. Edmina and I miss you dearly._  
  
 _With love,_  
 _Uncle Redge_  
  
His letter was by far shorter than Edmina’s, but just as heartfelt all the same. She touched the note fondly, as if she could absorb their love through it, drawing her fingers over the creases in the letter where Redge had carefully folded it. Placing each one back in its envelope, she placed them in the drawer of her nightstand, locking it tightly with a well-placed spell.   
  
Unsurprisingly, her grandfather’s package contained a multitude of different wizarding sweets, some of which she had neither seen nor tasted in some years, others which were new to her, and further down within the box amid all the candies, was a tin of treacle, neatly packaged away. There was a handwritten Christmas card inside as well, wishing her happy holidays. Slughorn’s gift was much the same, a good amount of candied fruits and the sort, neatly packed away in a decorative tin with a little note that said ‘these are some of my favorites, I do hope you enjoy them as much as I have’. Tucked in with the candies, to her surprise, was a note saying ‘two books may be ordered by Hermioine Granger from Flourish and Blotts at the expense of Horace Slughorn, with his signed approval’.  
  
Well, that was certainly the least subtle hint about what kind of gift he would like in the future, even as she smiled at the possibility of books. Books that she wouldn’t have to work through her aunt and uncle to buy--which could be useful.   
  
A loud knock on the door interrupted her musings, followed by Slughorn’s voice ringing out, “Miss Granger dear, we’re all heading to the Great Hall for breakfast and your presence would be missed!”   
  
Was it really so late already? She had, now that she thought about it, sat and looked over the letters from her relatives for some time. “Of course, Professor, I’ll be right there,” she said reluctantly, glancing down at herself. She still had yet to bathe and get dressed. Crookshanks paused momentarily from rubbing his cheek over the ball of catnip happily, to glance at her with about as curious of an expression as you could get, from a flat-faced kneazle. She’d have to skip the shower this morning, or just dive in quickly and then do a drying charm on her hair. It didn’t matter that it would frizz a bit at this, really, it wasn’t like she cared.    
  
She scrubbed up quickly and took care of her hair, roughly clipping it back to her scalp with a few hairpins before, momentarily fretting over what to wear, only to remember that Edmina had just given her a new dress and matching ribbons for her hair. Pausing momentarily, she held the dress up before her vanity mirror, turning it about to admire it, before she set it aside on her bed. As pretty as it was, it lacked the protective runes that Edmina had lovingly hand-stitched into most of Hermione’s non-school clothes, and so she chose one of the other dresses, a pale blue ankle-length one which, though covered in off-white lace, was still relatively tasteful and was embroidered with protective runes in such a way that it came off as little more than an elegantly stitched pattern, rather than obvious attempts at protection. Slipping into the dress and struggling a bit with all the many buttons up its back and high collar, she twirled, once again, in the mirror, with her skirts flaring out a bit around her form. Smiling at this, she pulled on her thickest pair of stockings and flat shoes, lacing them up and quickly slipping out into the hall where Slughorn was still waiting, with Crookshanks at her heels.   
  
“You look lovely, m’dear,” he said happily, a wide smile upon his lips as he presented his arm. “Care to allow me to escort such a beauty to the hall for breakfast?” he chuckled.   
  
She gritted her teeth into what she hoped looked like a smile and took it, hating the contact but deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble to upset him over. And so, Slughorn paraded into the Great Hall with her at his side, walking a bit faster than his usual pace to keep up with her.   
  
Unfortunately, the majority of the table that all present were seated at was nearly entirely full by this point, save for two seats near the end, directly between her two least-favorite people in the school. Slughorn took the chair next to Dumbledore, leaving her to sit next to Riddle.   
  
Tom stood from his chair, moving it once again out of the way in mirror to his behavior the other day, but there was something... _off,_ about his behavior. He kept glancing to her from the corner of his eye, fingers nervously skittering over the bag that looked to carry his school-books, which was placed in his lap. She somehow doubted he was afraid of her, judging by his behavior last night.  
  
Finally, he stood from his seat yet again, facing her, and the chatter about the table ceased as he turned to face her. “Ah, I didn’t exactly have time to get a gift, but I thought this might be useful to you,” he said with false awkwardness, producing an enormous, heavy book from his school bag and pressing it into her hands before she could protest. “So you don’t get startled by the moving stairs, again,” he rambled. “Um. Yes. Well. There you are,” he finished, seating himself again and busying himself with his breakfast.   
  
She gave him a look that clearly expressed a look that said that she had no idea what he was talking about and that he might be a tad bit mad. This only seemed to make his false awkwardness even worse, and deciding that it would be best to just turn away--he was clearly up to something--she glanced down at the book.   
  
“Hogwarts, A History?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.   
  
“Oh!” Slughorn said, pointing sharply and tapping his finger on the book’s cover even as he finished his last mouthful of eggs. Swallowing, he continued to say, “That’s the complete compendium of the history of the Hogwarts Castle, right down to the founding four! New version comes out every few decades, you know,” he said brightly. “That will be quite useful, yes, in helping you find your way around! Novel idea, Tom!”   
  
“It’s also quite fascinating. A favorite book of mine,” he said, seemingly humble, even as she wanted to glare at him for his obvious reference to their interaction last night. “I know it’s not exactly the best of gifts, since it’s from the Library, but I thought you’d like it nonetheless.”   
  
Damn. School property. That meant she couldn’t destroy it. But it also made it likely that he hadn’t cursed it. What was he getting at?  
  
“Thank you,” she bit out with all of the fake friendliness that she could muster.   
  
Tom merely ducked his head the slightest bit and focused as if he were interested in the conversation between the other teachers. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Slughorn, watching with an expression of rapt interest. Was there something here, that she wasn’t quite getting?  
  
Deciding to keep a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t initiating some plan, she began getting some food herself. Just as she was reaching for the spoon to get some bread pudding, another hand met hers--and the ring identified it’s source. They both recoiled as if burned, but Tom, strangely, looked away, not meeting her eyes.   
  
When she glanced over at Slughorn and saw him looking between her and Tom delighted, the puzzle piece fell into place. Her mouth fell open in impossible to hide, sick horror. Tom covered up his laugh with a cough.   
  
“You bastard,” she mouthed at him. He merely smiled at her, this time openly. Suddenly, his smile disappeared, and he let out a quiet gasp, hands clenching on the edge of his chair as his teeth ground together. She frowned at him, then glanced down to see a red tail swishing beneath the table, and claws digging violently into Tom’s leg. He closed his eyes, taking deep, shallow breaths.  
  
“Alright there, Tom?” Slughorn asked obliviously.   
  
“Fine,” he bit out, shaking his leg a bit but Crookshanks dug his claws in even deeper at this, and Tom let out a small pained whimper.   
  
Quite frankly, she’d never been so fond of Crookshanks as at that moment and a beatific smile came to her face as she stared down at her brave cat clawing up the obnoxious prat sitting next to her. Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes promised pain and suffering in the future.   
  
Suddenly, music blared, and they both jolted as muggle jazz from the twenties filled the room. Tom’s head snapped over right along with Hermione’s to where Dumbledore sat by an old record player. “A bit of music for a lively occasion!” Dumbledore said cheerfully, then swept Ms Tisbald right out of her chair with a surprised squawk from the middle-aged witch, followed by laughter from the surrounding teachers.   
  
“And you thought I didn’t mean it when I said it was bad,” Tom hissed from the corner of his mouth, even as he reached down and detached Crookshanks from his leg, holding the kneazle up to eye-level. “Bad kitty. You don’t claw people.”   
  
Crookshanks made a swipe at his face, and he immediately dropped the kneazle, who ran across the table and jumped off the end, disappearing between the chairs even as he upset Dippet’s plate and cup onto his lap. The Headmaster gave a slight, surprised cry, but quite frankly it’d been worth it.    
  
However, her triumph was short-lived. Slughorn, who had been getting into the wine even despite the early hour, chuckled delightedly. “What a fantastic idea, Albus! Up we go, Mz. Vance!” Slughorn said brightly, lifting the rather frail, elderly librarian from her seat and swinging out into the open area just beyond the head table.   
  
“I take it back. I’ll feign illness.”   
  
“Not a chance,” Tom replied under his breath. “We’re in hell, and if I’m going to be stuck here so are you. You had your opportunity to duck out and you ignored it. It’s not my problem if you don’t want to deal with the consequences.”   
  
“You didn’t mention anything about _dancing_ ,” she hissed angrily.  
  
“I told you Slughorn gets into the wine, didn’t I? What do you think a pompous fellow like himself does when he drinks, mm?”   
  
“Talk about himself and his favorite students.”  
  
“Oh he does that on his own without any prodding. He’s much, _much_ worse when he’s been into the eggnog a bit. You just wait.”   
  
“At least I get the satisfaction of knowing you’re suffering right along with me.”  
  
“Oh no, it’s going to be much worse for you” Tom hissed under his breath, “I’ve been through this before after all, I can deal with it.”   
  
She stared at him for a moment.   
“I’m here every Christmas,” he said coldly. “I’m about numb to it by now.”   
  
Hermione sneered. “Don’t expect me to hop on your pity train.”  
  
“As if you would,” he snorted. “You’re obviously a cold-hearted bitch underneath that pretty little face.”  
  
“To you? Most certainly.”  
  
“Well then I’ll happily return the favor,” he said frigidly, and for a moment she was genuinely concerned, until one of the teachers suddenly threw a load of crackers over the table.   
  
“Christmas crackers, open ‘em up!” he shouted jovially.   
  
“Bloody fucking hell,” Tom muttered, though his face remained entirely placid in expression.   
  
She regarded them as if they were live asps, and he seemed to be regarding them with the same amount of wariness. Two of the teachers pulled a cracker apart, and Hermione startled at the noise. even as a sea captain’s hat and a couple of roses fell onto the table. “Har Har!” said the Arithmancy teacher, popping the hat onto his head and offering the rose to the Divinations professor, who happened to be his wife. She blushed and smiled, taking it delicately.   
  
“Take one!” urged Slughorn to Tom and Hermione, who had just finished a dance with Mz. Vance. The poor elderly woman wobbled slightly as she moved to seat herself once again, even as Dumbledore swept her up for another dance. Sharing a brief glance of mutual agony, Tom hesitantly took one of the crackers, holding the opposite end to Hermione. ‘Shared pain’, he mouthed to her, though he looked equally miserable.   
  
Angry that he was placing all the blame on her, she grabbed her end and _pulled._ It exploded like a gunshot, and she waved her hand to clear away the smoke left behind. She looked down and found herself staring at an enormous, full-sized Rococo-period powdered wig, piled high with voluptuous curls and braids.   
  
“There is no way in all seven hells that you are putting that on my head,” Tom stated flatly.   
  
“Likewise,” she said, staring at it.  
  
“Waste of a good hat, Tom,” Dumbledore chided, plucking the ugly thing from Hermione’s hands. “Come now, this is supposed to be a time of good will and good cheer, and you both look absolutely miserable.”   
  
Hermione just turned to him, her gaze dead, not even bothering to hide it.    
  
  
“Sorry, Professor,” said Tom with a lackluster smile, not being able to express his disinterest as openly as Hermione.   
  
“May I be excused, Professor?” Hermione asked prettily.   
  
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “A good try, Miss Granger, but I’m afraid not.”   
  
Tom looked quite pleased with this, until Slughorn appeared and piped up, “Why don’t you come join the festivities? Have a dance, or something of the like!”   
  
Tom’s face went completely bloodless. “I’m afraid I don’t dance, Professor,” he said at the same time as Hermione said, “No, no, really, it’s okay. I am very clumsy. I might hurt someone.”    
  
“Oh come now, you’re both young and full of vitality, if Mz Vance can still do a good waltz at her age I’m sure the two of you will be just fine!”    
  
Tom looked impassive for a moment, and then a smile came to his face that couldn’t hide his vindictive thoughts. Oh god. He was going to use this, she just knew it. She shuddered, just the slightest bit at the thought of his hand on her waist.   
  
“No really, I’m afraid I just can’t do this,” Hermione said, looking to Slughorn desperately for backup.   
  
Slughorn chuckled. “Nonsense. There’s no need to be nervous, no matter your skill. It’s just this small group and none of us will laugh if you step on a few toes.”  
  
Tom rose from his seat with kingly grace, and presented his arm to Hermione. “I’m afraid we’ve no other option then,” he said, eyes glinting. “Care for a dance, _Hermione?”_  
  
“Be warned, _Tom,_ that I will most likely crush your toes,” she said with much more bravery than she felt.  
  
“Duly noted,” he purred. “Well?”   
  
Slughorn laughed, obviously delighted, when Hermione jerkily stood up and took Tom’s arm. Immediately, she found herself swept onto the open floor, an arm snugly wrapped about her waist and another holding her free hand, even as she swayed back, surprised at the suddenness of the motion. Tom smiled widely down at her.   
  
“Enjoying yourself yet, Hermione?” he asked, his voice low even as a slow, jazzy tune came on. She gulped when he pulled her just the slightest bit closer, his arm around her waist tightening just the slightest degree, as if just to remind her that it was there. As if it didn’t feel like a molten brand against her already.   
She didn’t speak; she found she couldn’t quite bring herself to, even as they swayed together on the open floor. _Slow-dancing with a young Dark Lord,_ she thought dully, _not quite how I envisioned my first Christmas in Britain._  
  
The song seemed to drag on endlessly, but eventually, to her eternal relief, it ended, and he released her, a smile on his lips as she stepped away, almost tripping over her own feet.   
  
“Ah, isn’t it wonderful to watch the younger set?” asked Slughorn to Dippet, who only nodded sagely. Hermione felt sick.   
  
Hermione, after that, took back to her seat--and she was sure she would be followed, but it seemed that Slughorn had convinced Tom to dance with Mz. Vance. Glad for the break from his attention, she sipped her pumpkin juice. Another loud BANG from a wizarding cracker went off, and she jumped in her seat. Tom, as he seated himself beside her once again, having finished his dance, smirked.   
  
“A bit jumpy?” he asked, though it as more of a statement. She glared at him, and he laughed quietly, obviously pleased with himself. “Merry Christmas, Granger,” he said, swirling the contents of his goblet amusedly.   
  
She didn’t reply, just taking a bite of a pastry to get the sick taste out of the back of her throat.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
After the fiasco that was Christmas Eve and the subsequent Christmas Day, she thought that she would have to deal with Tom Riddle gunning for her during the hols, and possibly after. However, as she tentatively went about her business in the castle, which mainly consisted of her reading in the library, she found that he didn't approach her even when they were within the same area, merely giving her a passing glance before returning to whatever book he was reading. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and she made sure to stay within Mz. Vance’s line of sight regardless of his behavior.  
  
She did test it, though, over the next few days, slipping away here and there to grab a book that was further back within the library, spending time sandwiched between two rows of books as she worked through one or two of them, and so forth. But not once did Riddle bother her.  
  
Eventually, she felt almost safe in the library, despite his presence. Of course the paranoia was always there that he would lash out, but he never did. He’d even nod to her, offer a greeting occasionally, even direct her to some point in the library if he overheard her ask Mz. Vance about a particular book. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that he was backing off. He’d had his bit of fun and as he had said, he did not need another enemy.  
  
She was reviewing, a bit, on the subjects that her classes would cover. With her tutors she had covered up to NEWT level, but she hadn’t picked up a book on most of the subjects in roughly two years (when her tutors started going into hiding) so she figured she was probably rusty. She ate through the books quickly, and found that though her knowledge was lacking in some specific areas, it had flourished in others. Morbidly, she thought, it was because she’d spent the past year and a half putting everything she knew into practice.  
  
However, she didn’t review every day. She had other projects--in particular, reading over the book Edmina had sent her for Christmas and subsequently putting protective runes into her clothes.  
  
She was terrible at it, as she quickly realized. She had the magic, even more so than Edmina, but her embroidery was embarrassing to look at, even by her rather lacking aesthetic standards.  
  
Edmina had added a few notes here and there throughout the book, suggesting she practice on a separate piece of cloth, but she had been hasty, and her concern for the presence of not only Riddle but Dumbledore in the castle had spurred her on in her impatience, into mucking up the seams on the dress.  
  
“Good gracious, that looks absolutely atrocious.”  
  
She jumped, completely spooked by that now familiar voice, and she turned around, dropping her needle and going for her wand in her pocket, whipping it out and leveling it at the source of the noise.  
  
“Relax, Granger,” Riddle intoned softly, even as another boy, beside him, had drawn back when she pulled her wand, eyes wide with surprise.    
  
“Sorry,” she said to the other boy--this could only be Belby--and not even glancing at Riddle at her apology.  
  
“Oh no problem, no problem at all,” Belby blustered, dumping a pile of books he’d been carrying on the table opposite her. “Mind if we sit here? It’s awful dull being alone in the castle.”  
  
 _I wouldn’t mind if Riddle weren’t with you._ “It’s fine,” she said, still only talking to Belby. Even so, somehow her voice shrank down a bit at the idea of conversing with other people, coming out just barely above a whisper. Riddle was more than free to take a hint, though she had a feeling that he wouldn’t.  
  
She was right, as Riddle took the seat next to her.  
  
“Who taught you embroidery?” he asked absently, setting out his own books upon the table.  
  
“No one,” she mumbled, embarrassed, glancing at her book. “I was trying to teach myself.”  
  
“No wonder it looks like a chicken stitched it,” Belby chuckled from across the table.  
  
“Everyone has to start somewhere,” she said, annoyed. Not at Belby, but more at Riddle for having caught her lacking in an area.  
  
“My sister started at it when she was four. Already repairing the embroidery on the family tapestries and whatnot, and she’s only twelve now. Course it’s not like she has much else to do, stuck with dragon pox.”  
  
“Yes, I heard about that. Is she okay?” asked Hermione. She was going to pretend Riddle didn’t exist.  
  
“She’s doing alright. Complaining like she’s suddenly queen of the house and everyone has to jump at her beck and call, the little brat.” Belby chuckled good-naturedly, clearly still fond of his sister despite this.  
  
Hermione couldn’t resist a small smile of amusement. “Some people are better patients than others.”  
  
“Too true, too true. But goodness, nobody’s ever taught you? I mean isn’t that just something woman automatically learn?”  
  
Hermione gave him another annoyed look. “I didn’t have time. I was busy helping my father with his research. Besides, my mother set no store at me learning such things.”  
  
“Why not? Awful hard to find a good husband when you can’t do stuff about the house.”  
  
Riddle smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with sharing such chores, Belby.”  
  
“You only say that because you’re not a pureblood,” Belby sniffed.  
  
“Of course. A woman of such noble pedigree needn’t think about doing anything other than pattering about the house and making babies?” asked Hermione sarcastically.  
  
Riddle snorted.  
  
“Goodness, why do they even bother with an education at Hogwarts?” Hermione continued, “It’s not like they’ll be _using it_ because obviously they aren’t anywhere near as capable as the big, strong men.”  
  
Belby’s face slowly flushed. “Well you still should learn, it’ll help your chances.”  
  
“I’ll learn,” said Hermione with false sincerity. “When it’s that or starvation.”  
  
Belby blinked owlishly. “What?”  
  
Riddle leaned back in his seat, pulling his book a bit closer and loosely propping it against the edge of the table. “She’s a refugee from Germany, Belby, didn’t you notice her accent?”  
  
“Thank you, Riddle,” she said acerbically. How wonderful of him to give away all of her information, even if it was rather obvious information. “We actually haven’t been introduced. I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, turning away from Riddle to speak to Belby.  
  
“Oh!” Belby’s face seemed to light up upon hearing her name. “Oh! Oh! I’ve heard about you!”  
  
“Oh no,” said Hermione, having no idea what he’d heard and not sure if she wanted to know.  
  
“Belby, you’re scaring the poor girl,” Riddle said, absently turning a page. “He is neglecting to tell you he has relatives in Germany who report the local happenings of the war to him.”  
  
“You going missing was whispered about.”  
  
“I see,” she said, her face going blank. “I didn’t realize I was so notorious. Or that it’d be enough to spread around the school,” she said, looking pointedly at Riddle.  
  
“Oh...I...um, sorry,” Belby said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to seem rude. But it’s not spread around the school, most people here are either half oblivious or just plain don’t want to know what’s going on overseas.”  
  
“It’s okay,” said Hermione, reassuring Belby, more angry at Riddle’s intrusion than him. “It’s just not something that I care to talk about.”  
  
“Sorry again,” Belby said awkwardly. “But...you’re technically not even quite a half-blood...why are you in Slytherin?” He obviously was afraid she would take offense yet again, judging by the way his shoulders seemed to curl inward a bit.  
  
She shrugged. “Take up with the demented hat. And I am related to the Dagworth-Grangers, even if my father was a squib. I guess Slytherin let it slide.”  
  
Belby gave a weak smile at this. “I guess so. It’ll be interesting, having you in our house. I mean, I don’t mind so much about the whole not-pureblood thing but others...well, they aren’t going to like you very much.”  
  
Hermione waved it off. “I don’t care what they think of me. It won’t be a problem.”  
  
“You might want to. It’s not going to help you move in social circles at all, or find a proper husband, or--”  
  
“Belby,” she said clearly, even as she noted Riddle’s small smile from behind his book. “I am ambitious, but not in that way. I don’t care about having a husband or moving about socially. I have my own goals.”  
  
“You don’t?” Belby blinked owlishly from behind his horn-rimmed glasses.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Belby didn’t notice that Riddle was trying very hard to resist an amused grin and was on the verge of failing, but Hermione did. She pretended not to notice. An awkward silence fell, and Hermione went back to trying to work on her dress. She pricked her finger--again, she had a handkerchief next to her dotted with blood where she’d done it before--and she swore under breath.  
  
“Give it here then if you’re so terrible at it, I’ll show you how to do it,” Riddle said suddenly, hand outstretched for the dress in her lap. “And you’re supposed to use a thimble to keep from poking holes in your fingers.”  
  
“Those things that look like small cups?”  
  
Riddle tutted, standing a bit and reaching over for her sewing kit, pulling it between the two of them and opening it out fully. “This is a thimble,” he said, pulling out the tiny cup. “The cheap ones are just made of metal but it looks like you’ve got an old heirloom set here. You put it on your finger like this,” he said, demonstrating, “and hold the needle like this. Your grip is too tight, you act like the cloth is going to attack you and you’re going to stab it until it behaves.”  
  
Belby’s mouth had dropped open. “You can sew.”  
  
“Yes?” Riddle said, glancing up. “It’s useful. Means I don’t have to coerce girls into repairing my socks.”  
  
Belby made a face. “That’s girl’s work though, why not just get new socks?”  
  
Riddle set down the needle and thread. “Because I don’t have money for new socks, or any new clothes, Belby.”  
  
 _Orphan,_ she remembered. Orphan, living in London. And now, looking a bit closer, she could see that his clothes were old and worn; probably second-hand, and they’d been let out a couple of times as he grew. He probably repaired them himself.  
  
“Oh,” he said, looking genuinely ashamed. “I’m sorry. I forget.”  
  
“Yes, I noticed,” Riddle sniffed. “Going to call me unmanly now or some other tripe?”  
  
“It is kind of weird. You two are kind of odd, but I guess it makes sense,” he said cautiously, but without much of a hint of judgement. More like it was just a fact of the world rather than his (rather outdated, if you asked her) opinion.  
  
Riddle snorted. Hermione gave Belby a look, for daring to put her in the same class as Riddle. Belby shrank a bit beneath their combined gazes, and eventually grabbed a book. “Um, I’ll just be here. Studying. Things. Yes.”  
  
“You do that,” Riddle said absently. “Now let me see that, I’ll show you how to do it. Trying to sew runes, are you?”  
  
“Yes,” she said stiffly, wondering if she could escape. She looked at the clock. They had almost two hours until lunch would be served. Damn.  
  
Riddle scooted his chair a bit closer to her own, pulling over her book and notes between the two of them. “Oh, protective runes. That makes sense. Alright here, watch what I do,” Riddle said, his fingers sliding the needle loosely through the bit of fabric stretched over the embroidery frame, soon creating a row of tight, careful stitches directly side by side, beginning the shape of the next rune.  
  
She watched intently and she realized that he was a better teacher than Edmina. That was not comforting in the slightest.  
  
Riddle slowed his movements as he continued the thread and moved to the next rune. Vaguely, she could feel magic singing through the hair-thin bit of string, even as he worked; something that, now that she knew what to look for, she realized Edmina had been unable to do, in her own workings. This was different, from just embroidering the runes; he was doing a full casting. And she’d tried it herself, but she hadn’t been able to create the rune shapes, making her casting basically useless. Belby didn’t even notice Riddle’s magic, simply continuing to read his book.  
  
Once he finished with the rune, he set it aside, before taking up one of the scraps of cloth that Edmina had sent for her to practice with, and placed it in the embroidery frame.  
  
“Here. I’m going to stitch out another rune, and I want you to copy it after as best you can. Watch what I do, and try to imitate. Eventually you’ll get it right, if you work at it.”  
  
She watched, mainly for lack of any way to escape, and she was determined to not humiliate herself further. She probably watched a bit too intently, committing it permanently to memory.  
  
“You hate this sort of thing, don’t you?” Riddle questioned as he pulled the thread taut.  
  
“I don’t hate it,” she said. “I just don’t really have any strong feelings on the matter. I just never had any reason to learn before.”  
  
“Makes sense,” he agreed, “Though you do look like you’re trying to burn holes into the fabric, with the way you’re staring.”  
  
“I don’t like being caught not knowing something,” she said, deciding that there wasn’t any lie she could tell that would make sense. And she didn’t see how he could use it against her.  
  
“Well that’s a decent excuse to learn, then,” Riddle said, offering her a small smile.  
  
“I suppose,” she said noncommittally. She wouldn’t have minded learning from anyone else, except maybe the few people in her life that she trusted even less than Riddle. She didn’t trust him, and she certainly didn’t trust this nice boy act that he was playing for Belby and, probably, Mz. Vance.  
  
“I’m gonna go grab a few more books,” Belby said, “Be back in a while!”  
  
Hermione tensed up even more, and she kept an eye on the table, keeping Riddle in her peripheral vision, as she listened to Belby walk away. She heard Belby talk to someone, and realized it was Mz. Vance, doing something in the stacks.  
  
Well, shit. She openly turned to Riddle then, downright suspicious now that they were basically alone.  
  
He ignored her distrustful glower and kept sewing the rune. She felt the hum of magic in the air grow in intensity, and she grabbed the edge of her wooden seat to keep from shuddering. It felt horribly, horribly dark; the sort of dark that would be behind Fiendfyre on the fields of France, the sort of dark that she’d only found when Grindelwald had appeared on-scene, but different; somehow this seemed to flow and crackle in its own intensity, rather than the slow, molten oozing of Grindelwald’s magic.  
  
Oddly enough, even as it left Riddle’s hands and made its way down the thread, the dark magic seemed to pull back, gathering beneath Riddle’s skin and leaving only light behind, with just the barest of traces of the monstrosity it had come from. He was _filtering_ it. With such ease that he must do so normally at a constant rate. Not that most people would be able to tell, but certainly a number of the teachers in the school had to have some awareness of their student’s magical proclivities. If he was posing as a member of the light (and she wanted to snort at this) then he would have to constantly filter it. His magic was, when unrepressed, very obviously dark in nature.  
  
“Your turn,” said Riddle pleasantly, handing her the embroidery frame.  
  
“Oh,” she said, hating how stupid she’d sounded, and she carefully took the embroidery frame. She was surprised that he was careful not to touch her--and that made her even more wary, even as she was grateful. She turned her mind back to the task, but always kept some of her awareness on Riddle as she tried it herself. Letting her magic flow down the thread, she worked the needle much more carefully than she had before. It wasn’t as neat as Riddle’s stitches, but they were much better than her previous attempts. The runes even kept their magic, now that she’d made a shape remotely resembling the rune. It was really odd, because she could feel both hers and Riddle’s (filtered) magic in the cloth. She never, ever wanted her magic to be in such close association with his. At least it was just a practice scrap.  
  
She felt Riddle lean closer, and she immediately drew back--but he didn’t look at her, only at the embroidery. “That’s a lot better. It’s even holding your casting, now that it actually looks like a rune.” He flipped open the book that Edmina had sent her, and paged through it quickly before finding one. “Try stitching Kenaz in on your own. It’s an easy shape, and not to mention useful.”  
  
“Why would you say it’s useful? It’s the rune symbolizing illumination--it’s not all that protective.”  
  
“Honing your skills, being open to new opportunities--those are all things that could serve you in protection. Your runes shouldn’t be merely reactive to danger, but also warding against danger, or at least allowing you the opportunity to avoid dangerous situations.”  
  
“You’ve really studied this intensively, haven’t you?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Rune magic is tricky, but useful if you can string together the symbols in proper order,” Riddle explained even as he re-examined her stitching. “It helps that you’re sensitive to magic; you saw, when it started working, didn’t you?”  
  
Oh no, he wasn’t lulling her into free information. “Have you studied rune magic outside of class? I wouldn’t think this would be part of the normal curriculum.”  
  
“I’ve mostly surpassed the course schedule for that subject, yes, so I talked with the teacher and he set me on some alternative projects,” Riddle said, seemingly ignoring the fact that she hadn’t answered his question.  
  
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” she said, trying to stitch the rune on her own. She knew what it looked like, but the instructions in the book helped steer her.  
  
“That line there needs to be a bit wider,” Riddle said absently as he glanced at her work, “So, are you very interested in rune magic?”  
  
“Okay,” she said, carefully fixing her mistake. She had to bite back the impulse to thank him. “And I like any and all knowledge.”  
  
“Must be nice to have access to such a huge library then,” he said, smiling politely.  
  
“Yes, the Hogwarts library is excellent,” she said absently, having finished the first half of the rune. It was taking to her magic, but it wouldn’t completely until she was done.  
  
Riddle, to her consternation, was looking over her scratchy notes on what runes she wanted on the dress, and had taken her pencil and begun _correcting_ them.  
  
“Excuse you,” she said dryly. “That’s a perfectly fine cast.”  
  
“No, no, look here, if you use Ehwaz in this lineup instead of this one, then it’s going to throw the whole spell off-balance because you’re not leading up to the alteration from protective to hiding, you’re just barging in. If you’re going for subtlety then you’re going about it wrong.”  
  
“No, Ehwaz is too harmonious. It signifies a pairing. It won’t work at all for hiding, unless you’re hiding someone or with them.”  
  
“Yes, but in the event that you’re not alone at the time, you will be open and easily noticed unless you allow for some flexibility within the rune set. That’s why so many people struggle with them after all; they can’t find that median between situational flexibility and perfectly stating their exact intent. Because the runes will translate the magic as _exact._ ”  
  
“Which is _exactly_ why I wouldn’t use that rune. It could potentially lead to someone else being noticed in my stead. Or, even best case scenario and it does work in hiding me, they could clear out the crowd in getting to me.”  
  
Riddle’s lip curled. It only occurred to her then that he had been testing her knowledge. “I knew you were smart,” he teased.  
  
“Smart enough not to fall for bullshit,” she said, finishing up the rune.  
  
“Such language. Belby would say it was unwomanly were he actually paying attention,” he chuckled. “Why such a sour face? I just wanted to know if your knowledge was general or not.”  
  
“No,” she said, putting the frame aside, and meeting his gaze. “I’ll tell you what you were testing. You were not only testing my knowledge, but if I’d notice if you worked yourself into the protections of my casting. The pairing you were hoping for was you and me--making sure I couldn’t hide from you.”  
  
Riddle’s lip curled further up into a genuine smile, then, oddly unsettling on his normally controlled face. “I stand corrected. Not just ‘smart’.”  
  
“How wonderful for you to notice,” she said sarcastically. She surreptitiously glanced towards the shelves. Where were Belby and Mz. Vance? She had a feeling the dangerous waters she was in had just begun boiling, and she wanted _out._  
  
“Belby and Mz. Vance are probably searching for a book that isn’t supposed to be checked out but is missing from the shelves. I do wonder where it could be,” he said, having noticed her gaze.  
  
“How did you even know what book he was going to look for?” she asked, frustrated.  
  
He shrugged. “It’s simple enough when he told me what assignment he was working on. He grabbed all of the books on the subject except for the only one that’s actually useful.”  
  
Hermione wanted to give an incoherent yell of frustration. What had she done to deserve this? “Riddle, I have no earthly idea why you set this up, but all I am doing is a half-ass casting on my dress.”  
  
“Is it such a terrible thing that I want to get to know you?” Riddle asked, leaning back in his chair.  
  
“I don’t feel like you want to get to know me so much as I am an ant and you’re holding a magnifying glass over me, waiting to see me burn.”  
  
Riddle’s smile disappeared at that, replaced with annoyance. “I want to know _you,_ Hermione, I’m not the only one wearing a mask here. Watching you burn would entirely ruin any chance of that.”  
  
“I don’t even know what’s under the mask anymore, Riddle. If you find out, send me an owl,” she said, taking the book Edmina had given her and closing it, then putting it in her bag.  
  
Riddle frowned at this. “That’s unfortunate,” he said simply, “I still want to know.”  
  
“Really?” she said, softly, and she met his eyes directly.  
  
“I’ve never met someone who reflects so many aspects of myself. It’s unsettling.”  
  
Hermione gave an empty smile, and she relaxed for the first time in days, leaning forward. “I can understand that, and I know why. Really, it fits. I’ll tell you, then, since you were honest. A fair trade.” The smile died on her lips, and she felt her face go completely and totally empty. “I don’t know for certain, but my best guess is that, underneath my mask, is the corpse of the silly little girl I used to be. I’m the inferi version of her person--too cold, too ruthless, and far too empty.”  
  
Riddle scratched his chin. “That sounds absolutely miserable. Then again I suppose we are unlike in that; I can assure you I’m not ‘dead inside’ as you suggest.”  
  
“Really? You may not be a product of anything to make you dead, but I think you are. In your own way.”  
  
He stared absently at the bookshelf opposite their table, his expression speculative. “Food for thought,” he murmured, “Definitely food for thought.”

* * *

  
 _Apparently, you can get used to anything_ , she mused as she sat at a table with two Dark Lords and didn’t cower or flinch at every movement or noise. At least she wasn’t sitting between Dumbledore and Riddle, though Slughorn had been doing everything in his power to sit her next to Riddle for reasons she couldn’t fathom. Sometimes she escaped by sitting with Belby who, once you got him off the topic of her dissonance in pureblood customs, was quite friendly and nice to chat with. However, even Slughorn had quickly learned that Hermione hardly spoke. Slughorn and Belby tried to make up for her silence by talking at her.  
  
At today’s breakfast she couldn’t get away, though, from conversation or Riddle.  
  
“Could you pass the butter?” Riddle asked politely from her left. She handed it to him without a word. “How’s your rune project going?” he asked after taking a bite of a slice of toast after slathering it with a good amount of butter.  
  
“It’s going well, after practicing some,” she said tentatively.  
  
“That’s good. I found another book in the back of the library on rune magic...I think it was misplaced at some point, it was one of the dustiest I’ve ever encountered. But you might like it.”  
  
“Thank you,” she said with all the forced diplomacy that she could muster. If it wasn’t enough, at least it could be excused as supposed early morning apathy, though she was actually quite a morning person when her sleep schedule functioned correctly.  
  
Riddle had figured out, after she’d read the first book he’d gotten for her out of the library, that she wouldn’t turn down books--and, not only that, would actually read them. She tried to tell herself to turn them back in, but she always kept wondering _why_ Riddle had lent her the book (or so she told herself) and thus read it.  
  
“Great, I’ll give it to you later. It’s in my dorm at the moment.”    
  
Hermione was saved from having to hide her annoyance--which, quite honestly, she doubted was ever really hidden from Riddle. “Mail’s here,” Haberdynn, the Herbology teacher, announced as a flurry of owls descended upon the head table. A good number of them went directly to Riddle, swirling above him as they waited for each one to give him a letter, a package, or any number of similar items. A few nearly knocked over her goblet. She was comforted in the knowledge that Riddle was equally harried by the number of birds approaching him, though he dealt with it with an entirely straight face with only the slightest tic of irritation that she had a feeling not even Dumbledore would notice.  
  
Riddle received a letter or two most days, and she hated the bubble of jealous resentment she felt. She’d had one letter besides her notes at Christmas, and that was a letter from the Auror’s office, with their usual report on the state of her protection. She had, at least, been comforted by knowing they’d upped the wards on Edmina and Redge’s home, as well as her grandparent’s manor.  
  
Riddle neatly organized each letter into a pile on one side, and the packages into another, feeding the owls a bit of bacon before they went on their way and he was left with a good bit more mail than he typically received.  
  
Hermione moved her goblet back into it’s original spot as the last owl left Riddle and spiraled back up toward the ceiling of the Great Hall.  
  
“Quite the popular young man. It’s good that you’re connecting with so many people so soon,” said Slughorn, who was sitting across from Riddle, and didn’t look at all put out by the inconvenience the birds had made when one of the owls had stolen his last piece of bacon. With a bit of a smile he dug through his pockets and reached across the table, dropping one last small parcel on top of the pile to Riddle’s right. “There you are, m’boy, came a bit late, I’m afraid, but there’s your Christmas gift!”  
  
“Professor, thank you, but you do enough for me. This seems far more than necessary.” Hermione felt bile rising up at his obnoxious playacting.  
  
“Nonsense, nonsense!” Slughorn boomed. “After all it did give me a good enough excuse to go over the school potions ingredients again and add in a bit with the listings. Wasn’t any trouble at all, what with how quick you go through ingredients yourself! We’ll be getting through that next project in no time, wot!”  
  
Hermione didn’t even look up, but she noted the fact that apparently Riddle took up extracurricular projects with more than just his Ancient Runes teacher. She wondered if all of his professors knew how much of an ass kisser he was, or if they just thought it was part of his brainy “charm.”  
  
Her old self would have been green with envy and would have been determined to crush him academically. Now? She just wanted to avoid him.  
  
“Now Tom, what would you like for your birthday then, hmm?” Slughorn asked, heaping a good amount of scrambled eggs onto his plate.  
  
Hermione was forced to glance up along with the other people who heard and play polite. Damn.  
  
“What? Professor you already got me this, it’s more than enough already,” Riddle said, eyes widening a bit. “This is perfectly fine.”  
  
“Is it your birthday today?” she asked, knowing at some point she’d have to engage Riddle in conversation. At least do it over something asinine.  
  
“Just coming up in a few days, on New Year’s Eve,” Slughorn corrected, chuckling a bit. “Silly boy never wants anyone to get him anything, says it’s too close to Christmas.”  
  
“You’ll be turning seventeen, then?” she asked.  
  
Riddle nodded absently. “Yes, I’ll be of-age.”  
  
“See? This is exactly why he should be getting a gift, it’s only proper for a wizard coming of age,” Slughorn said cheerily.  
  
“Congratulations,” she said, giving a fake smile.  
  
“How old are you, Hermione?” Riddle asked curiously.  
  
“Seventeen.”  
  
Riddle blinked owlishly. “Then shouldn’t you be in seventh year?”  
  
“No, I turned seventeen in September,” she said. “A few weeks earlier and I would have been.” Not that it would have saved her from dealing with Riddle.  
  
“Oh, well that’s nice,” he said absently, ignoring his packages in favor of the letters, pushing his plate aside and sifting through the pile until he found what he was looking for.  
  
“How did you celebrate your coming of age, m’dear?” asked Slughorn.  
  
“Small party,” she immediately lied. Edmina and Redge hadn’t actually known it was her birthday until one of the nurses had given her a belated birthday greeting a few days later. She’d went into surgery the day of in the hopes of fixing some of the internal injuries from the knife wounds--well, they’d hoped. She could have told them before she even went in that it was too late.  
  
Riddle’s gaze flicked up from the letter as he dragged his thumb beneath its crease to open it, obviously catching the lie in her voice. She didn’t look at him.  
  
“Oh quite lovely, quite lovely, m’dear.”  
  
Hermione smiled, but it was even more strained than usual, and she went back to eating her food.  
  
“Oh!” Slughorn said, seeming to remember something, and she didn’t even glance up from her breakfast until he said her name. “I just got your schedule yesterday afternoon. Meant to give it to you earlier, but I had a meeting and whatnot.”  
  
Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from swearing as Riddle set down his partially-opened envelope and looked to her as Slughorn reached across the table to hand it to her. “Tom will show you about where your classes are, of course,” Slughorn said agreeably.  
  
“But surely he wants some time to look over his gifts?”  
  
“Not really, most of them are probably clothes anyway,” Riddle said absently, smiling. “They will keep.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with clothes. Sensible gifts,” she said, thinking of her aunt’s Christmas gift.  
  
Riddle nodded in agreement. “That’s why when everyone asked what I wanted that’s what I told them,” he said with a small smile, and again her gaze was drawn to how threadbare the fabric of his sweater was.  
  
“Ah, most of the set that’s your age don’t appreciate sensible gifts. I’m glad to see two students with such good heads on their shoulders,” said Slughorn, looking pleased.  
  
Riddle hid a snort as he drank from his goblet. Hermione quietly agreed with him. She had no doubts at all that Slughorn was always disappointed when he received a “sensible” gift.  
  
“It would be my pleasure to show you around Hogwarts,” Riddle said with a small smile in her direction, but as soon as she glanced over, he quickly didn’t meet her eyes. Was he still playing that game? “It’s like a second home, really. I bet you’ll love it.”  
  
“It’s quite the fascinating place,” she said vaguely.  
  
“Unfortunately the only teachers who will be in the school past the next hour are Haberdynn and Ms. Timbauld,” Slughorn said, clearing off the remnants of his plate, “Haberdynn’s busy taking down the Christmas decorations, though, and dear Marcella is busy helping file paperwork. Really a good bit of luck that we had a Prefect here over break. Busy day, today is. Big thing going on in the Ministry on Educational Reform today.”  
  
Hermione was immediately and utterly spooked. As if the castle wasn’t dead enough as it was! “Belby could too,” said Hermione, looking over for the other boy, and not finding him at the table. He’d slept in again. She could have killed the poor, weak, bespectacled boy for not acting as her shield.  
  
Slughorn snorted. “Belby couldn’t find his way out of a paper box. Not that I mean any offense really, the fact simply remains that he’s late for every single one of my classes. Still can’t navigate the dungeons, I don’t think.”  
  
If he was supposed to be the chivalrous pureblood male, she thought with sarcasm, then he’d get his ass to breakfast before she was forced to leave with Riddle and whatever doom awaited her there.  
  
“Really, it’s no trouble,” Riddle said, “I don’t really have anything better to do today.”  
  
“How disappointing. Must be a boring break,” she said. She hoped it stayed that way.  
  
“It’s alright,” Riddle said, shrugging a bit before he returned to opening his letter. Neatly re-folding the envelope, he set it aside and unfolded the rather long bit of parchment, covered from top to bottom in tight, close handwriting. He mumbled something she couldn’t hear, looking slightly exasperated.  
  
“Goodness, that boy always writes a two-foot essay whenever you’re off on break, doesn’t he? And yet I can barely get him to meet the basic requirements of my assignments” Slughorn chuckled.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s because he doesn’t particularly like potions all that much,” Riddle said absently, more focused on the letter than on Slughorn.    
  
“Disappointing. Lucas’s mother was so very good at potions,” Slughorn sighed.  
  
Riddle’s head raised, and for a moment it looked like he was holding back a rather annoyed look from Slughorn, who didn’t notice at all, before his eyes lowered once again to the letter.  
  
He was in good contact with someone named Lucas, who was from a magical family. She stored away that information absently in her rather small “Information on Riddle” ledger.  
  
“Funny, I’d think with how close you two boys are he might pick up some bit of your knowledge of potions,” Slughorn said absently, forking a couple of pastries onto his plate.  
  
Riddle’s face went entirely blank almost instantly behind the letter held out before him, and Hermione immediately realized that he had not wished her to know that. She almost snorted. As if anyone who wasn’t close to him would send him a two foot letter after being gone for only a few days.    
  
“Not everyone can understand the finer points of the art,” Riddle excused quietly.  
  
“Yes, but the boy is quite smart, and with you and your little study sessions I’d think he’d be able to pick up at least a bit,” Slughorn said regretfully.  
  
 _Study sessions?_ She stopped pretending to not be listening, hoping it’d make Slughorn talk more. Riddle’s eyes flickered away from the letter for a moment to alight on her face, before going back to the parchment.  
  
“Ah, Riddle’s a tutor to the other students, then?” she asked, deciding that two could play the questioning game.  
  
“A number of them, yes,” Slughorn said jovially, “Hard-put to catch him in the library without a few friends following about. Even going so far as to write out overviews of some chapters for the first years, right Tom?”  
  
“Hopefully not disturbing the other patrons,” she mock chided.  
  
“No not at all, we’re quite quiet,” Tom said, his voice cold. “Really, you should join us someday after classes, Hermione, I think you’d like it.”  
  
“I’ll certainly keep an eye out,” she said.  
  
“I’m sure,” Riddle murmured.  
  
“Just for the younger set then?”  
  
“No, Tom helps students from all class levels; sometimes you’ll see a seventh year or two in there with them, giving them all a bit of a jump on the courses for next year,” Slughorn chuckled. “Not that they need it, eh boy? Got the smartest lot in the school with you, after all.”  
  
She really doubted that anyone needed to tutor Riddle in anything. He probably was helping the seventh years with their homework rather than preparing him--if there was any homework going on at all. Which she doubted. “Considering he seems to be doing a lot of extracurricular work, who knows? He might be teaching them. He’s probably just too _humble_ to say anything.”  
  
Riddle’s lips tightened a bit at this. _Got you,_ she thought, smirking slightly as she hid it by taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.  
  
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Slughorn said, laughing a bit. “You are the smartest student we’ve had pass through our halls in over a century, after all.”  
  
“I don’t know, Hermione might be giving me a run for my money,” he said with a smile, but his eyes were cold. Apparently he was still seething over her quick and most likely correct inferences.  
  
“Haha, got a bit of competition now do you, Tom?” Slughorn said, patting the table heavily.  
  
“Yes,” Riddle smiled, but the coldness had been replaced by a small lick of fire. It made goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. “A bit of friendly competition.” Dumbledore, three seats away, looked up at the two of them over his spectacles. She met his gaze for a moment before turning back to Slughorn and Riddle.  
  
“I’m just here to finish my courses. I have no intention of ousting anyone.”  
  
Riddle turned just the smallest bit to look at her, at this, an expression of curiosity on his face. “Oh? Any idea what you’re going to be doing after Hogwarts yet?”  
  
“Not really. Plans change too often, and I have a year left,” she said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a truth, either. She’d like to be a researcher, but she wondered if she would survive long enough to actually make it to beginning her career.  
  
Riddle nodded in understanding, seeming to grasp at some hint of what was not being said. “Are you finished with your breakfast? We could start in on that tour if you like.”  
  
“Sure,” she said, baring her teeth in what hopefully looked like a smile. She wasn’t sure if she’d succeeded. She wasn’t quite the master actor that Riddle was. Slughorn didn’t notice anything amiss, but Riddle clearly did, as he had a small, secret smile on his face as they both stood up. To anyone watching, except probably Dumbledore, it looked like the sort of look one would have when getting to escort the girl they like around. She knew better.  
  
“May I see your schedule?” he asked as she pulled it out of her pocket, trying to make sense of it as she looked it over. However, the quick notations and abbreviations made no sense to anyone who hadn’t been a Hogwarts student. With a sigh she didn’t bother to hide, she handed it to him.  
  
“Alright, this isn’t too hard. Really piling on a lot of the tougher classes, aren’t you?” he asked conversationally as they both left the hall.  
  
“It looks similar to my workload before,” she said, not wanting to give anything away.  
  
“We’ll have most every class together,” Riddle said with a smile.  
  
“Oh,” she said. Slughorn had mentioned that, but she couldn’t keep the obvious disappointment out of her voice. “Which classes do we not share?”  
  
“The only ones we don’t share are Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy.”  
  
“That makes sense,” she said.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“I didn’t have a Care of Magical Creatures equivalent,” she said. And she had studied so much Arithmancy that she’d thought attending a class, even OWL or NEWT level, would bore her to tears, so she had asked to test out of that lesson.  
  
“What about Arithmancy?”  
  
“Tested out of it.”  
  
He leaned back slightly in shock, before peering at her curiously. “I wish you’d gone to school here.”  
  
Now she was the one looking at him in surprise. “Why?”  
  
“Because it’s nice to have someone of equal intelligence around?” he suggested absently, continuing to walk forward.  
  
“I guess,” but she knew it was a lie. She had wished for someone to debate with and study with, when she’d been younger. She’d been a very lonely girl in many ways, and not even due to being homeschooled. She’d filled it with books and research, but there were some things that could never really be found within the pages of a good book. However, that would never be Riddle, even if he was on the same playing field intellectually as her.    
  
“So what are all the houses like?” she asked curiously, switching the subject over. Of course, she’d already been ‘de-briefed’ on the house system by Redge and Edmina individually, and again a bit more optimistically by Slughorn, so whatever he said wouldn’t really be new information. But it would be telling, really, she thought, of how much he was willing to give, when she tried to take. “I mean, I did read the book you gave me; it was very informative, but I want to get the perspective of someone who’s actually in school here, right now. That edition was written nearly a century ago, after all.”  
  
He gave her a small smile, but it was clearly a mask. “Well, not much has changed since the Founder’s time about how the Sorting Hat categorizes the students.”  
  
“Well yes I know that,” she sniffed, “But other things. Does everyone sit at whatever table they like, in the hall? There are four of them so I’d assume four separate houses. But that seems like it would make you awfully competitive against each other, doing something like that. If you aren’t able to spend time with your friends outside your house, then how are people supposed to unify at all across houses, really?”  
  
The blank, smiling mask held slightly more amusement. “Well, house unity is not something that is very strongly prized at Hogwarts.”  
  
“But what’s the point of pitting the students against each other? It would just cause animosity, I’d think. And especially with how Slytherin is supposed to be, that seems like it only makes things worse. Even Slughorn warned me about my classmates, even _you_ did. And he said that the Gryffindors weren’t even allowed to take classes alongside Slytherin anymore, with how much they fight. Maybe the system was meant to encourage healthy competition, but it seems like it’s only affecting people negatively rather than positively, if that’s the case. One would think they’d abolish such a practice by this point, if it’s gotten so bad over the years.”  
  
“And destroy nearly a thousand years worth of tradition? I’m sure, being the daughter of a researcher, you understand just how intensely the wizarding world prizes it.”  
  
“Well all things that become tradition started out as new ideas, once. And weren’t you talking about progress, the other day in the library? How there hasn’t been a single half-blooded minister before?”  
  
“I never said I agreed with the house system practice. I’m merely stating why it is currently in place.”  
  
“Well then perhaps they could change it in little ways, over time? It seems like in some ways it does serve its purpose, but right now in the long run, just from what I’m hearing from everyone I can tell it causes more trouble than it fixes.”  
  
“People find it much easier to remain in a rut than to engage in innovation. It takes people, and more than just one, presenting an idea, usually, before people began to throw around the possibility of change.”  
  
“Well then why not find people of similar stance, and do so?” she asked.  
  
He just shook his head, clearly amused. “I have, as you’ve made no real point of hiding your correct guess.”  
  
“Well then tell me about them. What do you all want to do? Because it seems like, considering your talk, it’s not just something like the house system’s faults that you want to change.”  
  
“Oh, but that depends on just what _your_ stance on certain subjects is.”  
  
“In other words, I express one of my views and you reveal whether you and your group agrees or disagrees?” A game, then. She could handle that.  
  
“Nothing given for nothing received, Granger,” Tom said teasingly.  
  
“Hmm, let’s see,” she said, flipping through her internal encyclopedic dictionary of discussion topics. “I believe that it should be required that students receive some form of formal education previous to attendance at magical school, whether through homeschooling, tutors, or schooling, rather than it being up to the guardian’s discretion.”  
  
“A touchy topic, that. Most would immediately rail against it because it implies that certain parents are, in fact, not doing this to ‘appropriate standards’. This is of course true, there are a number of families that do tend to neglect their child’s education, but many would see it as an offense, and others would dislike the idea of giving more power to the ministry than they already have. Not that the ministry really exercises that power where it matters.”  
  
“And, yet, not having a basic education makes it nearly impossible to survive independently in our world, with nearly no jobs available to those who do not.”  
  
“That is very true. I find the lack in training in basic necessities that would allow others to get by fairly well in the muggle world to be an enormous issue here within the wizarding one. Still, some people will consider their pride more important. Often, those for whom pride is a matter of tradition. And who would set the standard, then, for what is ‘adequate’ schooling? If you failed would you not be allowed to attend? What would the consequences of this action be? Take the child from their parents teaching and place them in a specified schooling system?”  
  
“And yet, the British Ministry already has, for those attending Hogwarts, official testing guidelines by them. And you never answered if your group, or even you, have an opinion.”  
  
“My opinion?” he paused, thinking momentarily. “I think there are some other holes which would need to be filled before I can really form a valid stance on the subject. Knowledge before opinion, after all.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Well, what about muggleborn children? And what would be the expected curricula for a wizarding child? The assumption is, again, that a muggleborn parent is providing adequate education for their child as well, and unless you can provide equal regulation of both than one side can easily argue that they are being treated unfairly.”  
  
“And that leads to a side issue, of whether or not magical children should be brought into schools in our world at the same age Muggle children do.”  
  
“And of course this leads to the issue of the statute of secrecy, as well. But bringing in Muggleborn children would deprive them of the general education which by their government they are required to receive, equally important to their growth and integration as that which is provided by wizarding parents, though perhaps more straightforward considering you have a designated course of study. Parents, in wizarding society, are expected automatically to cover a general course of study; teaching their child how to read and write, and basic mathematics. This is continued and improved upon as we integrate those studies with the study of various forms of magic, evolving from the most basic to more complex forms. After all the first three years of study in this school do cover very general, simplified spells and theory is discussed more heavily, also in relation to those core subjects. They are interspersed. But depending on background, some may not enter the school with that education and the fact remains that some parents are negligent on both sides, or lack the knowledge and qualification to teach such things, unfortunately.”  
  
“And yet, by most European education laws, eleven is too young to be dropping out of legally required education. Clearly schools are working around this.”  
  
“Which is why the system is tricked and Hogwarts is registered as a valid private school by muggle government, through ties to the prime minister and other officials. They are still assumed to be receiving a valid education, but in other formats.”  
  
“Yes, negligence isn't merely a wizarding family problem, though some are qualified, and that’s why this isn’t a closed issue.”  
  
Tom’s expression hardened momentarily, at her first words. She hadn’t intended her words that way, but she couldn’t find it within her to be all that guilty. “In the muggle school system you are only required to attend school through the age of thirteen or fourteen; it is assumed that some will drop out to pursue work rather than education. In some ways you see similar things within Hogwarts, but typically the child is pushed through the school system automatically and if they fail to keep up they simply go out into the world lesser educated and less capable for it. The child must actively pursue their education and work to improve their knowledge, or else it will fall flat. So the idea revolves around the idea that a student that is enrolled very much wishes to learn magic, and related subjects.”  
  
“Did you attend Muggle school, before you came to Hogwarts?” she asked.  
  
“I was taught by the clergy of a local church along with several other children; we learned reading, writing, and arithmetic. Not much on science, unfortunately.”  
  
“Science is one of those things that, like math, is difficult to teach. Most likely, you probably picked up significantly more reading than you would have learned at the hands of a teacher. It was my least favorite subject,” she said with some small amusement.  
  
“Well a good portion of it was readings out of religious texts, which I rather disliked. I went for any other reading material I could find, really, when the chances came for such things. Coming to Hogwarts, and having access to their library...mm,” he hummed in pleasure.  
  
“Yes, the wonders of books. It’s a shame that the wizarding world hasn't caught onto the concept of public libraries.”  
  
“Oh, if only. Imagine having access to the information you can find here, on a daily basis. I’d never leave,” he said, amused.    
  
“I went to some of the muggle public libraries, when I visited larger cities. Did you visit any in London?” she asked, segueing in.  
  
His face fell slightly, and she realized the mask had cracked, just the slightest bit. “No, I don’t get out much away from Hogwarts.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well, right now Muggle London is very much a potential target for bombing, among other things. We aren’t allowed out of doors as a result.”  
  
And, just like that, she remembered the sounds of planes and the clear signs of the Muggle war. Everything had been grey, even on the sunniest days.  
  
“--alright? Granger? Are you with me?”  
  
“I’m here. Just imagining,” she lied. She had no idea what her expression had been, but she schooled it back into false interest.  
  
“Did you see much of the muggle war, in Germany?” the question was asked with appropriate hesitancy and obvious care not to set her off.  
  
“I saw a bit in the village. Not a whole lot, though.” That was true. In her village, the war hadn’t really seemed real. Either war, really. The fact that she had seen it away from home she didn’t mention.  
  
“Oh. So you lived in a German village?” he asked, allowing his curiosity to show through.  
  
“Yes. It wasn’t of note, really,” she said. “Have you always lived in London?”  
  
“Then why did you come to Britain?”  
  
“One answer for another, Riddle,” she repeated.  
  
“Ah. Of course,” he said, as if realizing that he’d forgotten. “Yes, I’ve always lived in London.”  
  
“I have relatives here.”  
  
“But why not stay with your family?” he asked.  
  
“What happened to your family?” she asked.  
  
He paused, momentarily, before he answered, “I never knew them, really.”  
  
“I am not with my core family because they’re all dead. How do you know you’re halfblood, then?”  
  
He stared at her openly, upon her first words, for some minutes before he opened his mouth. “My middle name is Marvolo; a wizarding name, and my mother gave her name before her death.”  
  
“You seem so surprised.”  
  
“Well when you say you saw ‘a bit’ of the war in your village, and then say your entire family died, there’s a bit of incongruence there,” he said tentatively, after a moment’s pause.  
  
“I answered the question honestly. Both of them.”  
  
“Then that implies that if their death was only ‘a bit’ of what you saw of the war, you saw a great deal else. You say it so lightly, and you lost your entire family.”  
  
“I assure you, Riddle,” she said, her face and voice going cold. “That I never took their deaths lightly.”  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”  
  
“I’ll take that apology for what it’s worth,” she said, mirroring her previous response to his offenses.  
  
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, before letting it out in one rush. “No, really. I can’t imagine what it would be like, having that family and then losing it. I didn’t mean it to come off like that.”  
  
She stared at him openly. She had a good feeling that, this, actually, was sincere, and it was odd enough to make her visibly surprised. He had terrified her but, perhaps, he wasn’t completely lacking in emotions. Clearly family was a sore subject with him. Unfortunately, it was for her as well.  
  
“What happened to your parents?” she asked, and, for once, it wasn’t false interest.  
  
“My mother died giving birth to me at the orphanage,” he said tentatively. “The only thing I knew of my father, growing up, was that I bore his name.”  
  
It didn’t actually answer the question about his father, she noted. Did he not know anything about him? She couldn’t imagine that, having no sense of placement about where you were in terms of paternal history. Family history didn’t matter much as some people liked to say, but, there at least was a sense of connection to your blood, history, and existence, for her.  
  
They walked in silence for a time, and Riddle pointed out the location of the transfiguration classroom where Dumbledore would be teaching. She couldn’t quite resist a frown, not liking the reality setting in that she’d be in that classroom, being taught by one Dark Lord while another sat as a student in the same room. And her there, in the middle. It made her feel claustrophobic.  
  
Even as they walked, he remained oddly silent, closed-off, before he asked softly, “What was your family like?”  
  
The cotton came up as soon as the faces of her mother and father, during better times, gravitated to the forefront of her mind.  She turned to him, trying to make words come out but they were caught. She felt herself grow cold, the clear signal she had gone visibly pale.  
  
“Sorry. Touchy subject, I understand,” he excused, glancing away before she could even consider whether she was capable of fighting away the cotton and answering. “I think a different subject would be good, right about now,” he said absently.  
  
“Sounds wonderful,” she said, her voice scratchy when she could finally speak again.  
  
“You can ask me an extra question, if you like,” he offered.  
  
If that bad moment hadn’t just happened, she would have smiled. Technically, he’d lost count. She’d already had one extra, and now would have a second. She knew it had been because he’d been distracted by the thoughts of his family.  
  
“Do you have a wizarding guardian?” she asked. Typically, when a Muggleborn child (or any child that had been raised completely in the Muggle world completely) was brought into the magical world, they were assigned a guardian to smooth the transition and help explain customs and other issues.  
  
“Technically, though I won’t soon.”  
  
“Ah yes, your soon-to-be arriving birthday,” she said, nodding as she remembered breakfast. “Who is it?” she wondered if it was Slughorn, who was so fond of Riddle that she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been his wizarding guardian. And knew a lot of his history, too. If it wasn’t him, she could dig for more information from them about Riddle.  
  
Riddle’s face twisted mildly in distaste. “Dumbledore.”  
  
She let out a startled, shocked laugh. Merlin, that must have been horribly awkward for them both.  
  
“You’d think it would be my head of house, wouldn’t you? But apparently he _personally_ applied for guardianship,” Riddle sniffed.  
  
“No, I thought it was Slughorn,” she stated, after she got over her shock. “You two can barely sit at the table together. I can’t imagine how the summers go, when he takes you for supplies.”  
  
Tom had a look on his face that said he very much wished that it was. “Oh I don’t see him over summer.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “In Germany, well, before everything, one’s wizarding guardian is supposed to accompany their charge for the typical wizarding outings, for supplies and things, till they are of age.”  
  
“Here too.”  
  
Ah, so this was the cause of his tenseness when she’d mentioned negligence. She frowned. For a man with such an exceedingly wonderful reputation, the more she learned about him the more worthless he seem. All Dark Lords, evil under the surface with such kind veneers. “And no one would do or say anything because he’s the great Albus Dumbledore.”  
  
“Well if anyone knew, a few might.”  
  
“But you wouldn’t,” she stated. That said quite a bit for his personality. Strong independence, even under very trying and unjust circumstances.  
  
“I can’t really, even if I want to,” he said flippantly as they turned down another corridor.  
  
“Because he has his fingers in the pies of pretty much every important facet of the Ministry.”  
  
“Yes, that would be a fairly accurate representation,” Tom said morosely. He paused momentarily, before he added. “What relatives do you live with, here in Britain?”  
  
“My aunt and uncle,” she said, not giving away their names or anything else about them. “So, what does your little ‘study group’ do?”  
  
“Discuss current events, a lot. Particularly around Germany’s happenings. Also government mandates, politics here in Britain. And of course we study, and practice spells.”  
  
“What kind of people do you look for to join this study group?” she asked, wondering if he’d pick up that she asked two questions in a row. He didn’t seem to be keeping up with the total at all, making her wonder if he really cared, which meant perhaps that this situation might not be as bad as she’d thought.  
  
“Not pureblood supremacists, for one.”  
  
Well, at least they agreed on that point. The evils of pureblood supremacy had literally been carved into her skin. She absently touched the scar across her collarbone, the messy word “mudblood.”  
  
His eyes followed the motion, focusing lightly upon the scar that poked out from beneath her shirt collar. She frowned as she caught it, putting her hand back to her side. He couldn’t see it completely, anyway, just the upper letter “u” that rose higher up than the other letters, and the tip of the letter “d.”  
  
Eventually, his eyes flickered away. Things descended into silence for a bit. Tom showed her the location of Haberdynn’s herbology greenhouse, as well as the charms classroom, before she spoke up once again. “Why does the fate of halfbloods and Muggleborns appeal so strongly to you?”  
  
“I am a halfblood,” he said slowly. “And a good number of my friends are halfbloods or muggleborn, though I do have a good few among purebloods as well. It irks me that a good portion of those within the wizarding world are treated as if they are second-class, or third-class, though they are of equal strength and skill.”  
  
She didn’t disagree with his words, though the implied statement that, with his group, he intended to do something about it, sent chills up her spine. She did not want to be in the company of a rising Dark Lord.  
  
“Where did you go to school?”  
  
“I didn’t go to school anywhere. I was home schooled by my father’s colleagues, and a few tutors.”  
  
He turned then, looking at her with a curious expression on his face. “Home-schooled. And you were beyond NEWT-level before you left.”  
  
“I never said I was above NEWT level,” she stated.  
  
“It’s been implied. So then your tutors were defying government mandate. (Yes I know about the insistence that any half-blood or less that wished to learn magic be registered and approved before receiving any tuition).”  
  
“Not really. In the event that a student in particularly bright and passing beyond their age level, extra work may be given to meet their level or they may pass ahead. It’s not illegal. And I learned much of it on my own.”  
  
“Well you were missing for some time weren’t you? So during that time you didn’t receive much of any education, I wouldn’t think. And Slughorn mentioned you were absolutely brilliant, even having only been here for a few months.” She didn’t know of when Slughorn could possibly have said this, but really it could have been any number of times. She did have a rather bad habit of skipping meals, and it wasn’t like Tom and Slughorn weren’t obviously on good terms as it was, working on various extracurricular projects and such.  
  
“Yes, I was missing for fourteen months,” she said in answer to his question.  
  
“What were you doing, during those months?”  
  
“Running,” she said simply, but filled with painful memories.  
  
“That’s an awful long time to be running,” he murmured. “Slughorn said you only returned five months ago.”  
  
“I didn’t realize I was such an interesting discussion topic,” she said dryly.  
  
“Yes well, Slughorn has absolutely no problem telling a smitten teen about his love interest,” Riddle smirked.  
  
“Why are you playing that part?” she asked, exasperated.  
  
“Because it’s easier to be close to you without people asking questions,” Riddle answered, smiling innocently.  
  
“I have no idea why I would be of any interest,” she stated. The game had fallen from rather simple questions to the disturbing without any warning.  
  
“That makes one of us. You are in fact, very, very interesting.”  
  
“No, just unlucky,” she said.  
  
“Oh well that’s a given,” he said, eyes sliding back to the tip of the scar that peeked from beneath her collar. She covered it with her hand, glaring at him.    
  
“You make me feel like you’re undressing me in your head,” she said, his invasive state making her horribly uncomfortable.  
  
“Only wondering, Granger.”  
  
“My scars, for some reason, really capture your interest.”  
  
“We all have our own scars,” he said absently, eyes drifting ahead as they walked down the hall, turning down another corridor and onto a flight of stairs. “You can tell a great deal about a person sometimes, from them, whether they’re physical or emotional in nature.”  
  
“And you want to know where to emotionally stab me,” she stated. “And my scars seem to hold that answer, for you.”  
  
“Not entirely,” he said thoughtlessly, before he seemed to pull himself out of his head and back to reality.  
  
“And what scars do you carry, Riddle, since you seem so interested in mine?”  
  
“More than you’d think,” he said, his eyes flicking to her own before returning to the hall before them, flitting about the hall, taking in every minute detail from the tapestry upon the wall to the slight divets within the floor and signs of many feet traversing this hall over many centuries, flicking between each and every door and window they passed.  
  
“Why are you acting so strangely?” she asked. “You were threatening me the other day, and now we’re playing a question game.”  
  
“I’m thinking,” he said.  
  
“About what?” she asked, annoyed, and wondering if this damn tour would ever end.  
  
“How to proceed; the game has changed,” he stated simply.  
  
“How has it changed?” she asked, nervous now.  
  
“Oh, a little discovery here and there. But, I think it’s my turn for questions, now,” he murmured, stopping short in the middle of the hall.  
  
She stopped as well, and the change in tension immediately made her tense. Her hand discreetly went for her pocket, where her wand lay.  
  
“I want to know, Granger, why _exactly_ you left Germany. You traveled for fourteen months. That says that you were probably walking straight through enemy territory and you came out with more than a good few scars. Normally, a refugee, someone of your blood status wouldn’t be so important as to garner the sort of attention that would result, in those scars, Granger, and I want to know what it is that drove you out so desperately to Britain of all places, when you could have gone anywhere else. Because it wasn’t just that you had family here, was it?”  
  
She snorted in disdain. “You act as if my scars are a part of some large conspiracy.”  
  
He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe that’s because I have some idea as to what they’re from,” he whispered.  
  
She paled, and then her face contorted with rage. “What ideas?” she hissed.  
  
“Perhaps I should get that book from my dorm,” he said lightly, changing the subject. “We are rather close to the Hufflepuff common room, after all.”  
  
Furious, and not letting him push her around as she pleased, she set up a ward. She could leave, but he couldn’t, unless he took it down the hard way. “I didn’t get this far for some teen Dark Lord to jerk me around. _Why_ are you so interested in me, Riddle? I did nothing to gain your interest, except recognize you for what you are.”  
  
“You’re interesting,” he said, leaning forward a bit and taking a step in her direction. She stepped back. “You’re interesting because you’re broken. And you’re still vicious. And there are so very, very many questions, around your appearance here, and I very much like puzzles, Granger. I aim to find out whatever I can,” he said, with cold finality even as an empty smile stretched upon his lips.  
  
It terrified her. She was completely and utterly scared, but she would rather cut off her own arm than let him know that. She pulled out her wand, and aimed it at him. “My appearance here, and why am I here, is of absolutely no concern of yours in the slightest. Learn to reign in your curiosity like the rest of us.”  
  
“You’re not counting in free will, Granger,” he murmured. “And perhaps, as you have so obviously noted from the very moment you felt my magic, I am not very much like ‘the rest of you’, and neither are you, really, so ordinary as to stay beneath the eyes of people like myself. Dumbledore’s already watching you every moment you turn aside.”  
  
Well, that wasn’t good news. Actually, it was almost apocalyptic news. Did he know? Did he know the information she held in her head and the notes tied up in wards and secrecy spells in her beaded bag? Was he really as not against Grindlewald as she’d been told.  
  
“I think it really started,” Riddle purred, taking another step forward even as she flicked her wand back up and held it steady (he ignored it), “when he noticed you never met his eyes. Smart, catching on to that so quickly. Had previous experience with a legilimens, have you?”  
  
“Whether I have or not, again, is of no concern to you at all. Like a nosy, gossipy old woman, desperate to know everything about your neighbors.”  
  
“So no more questions then, I suppose our game is on hold,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in what appeared to be mild irritation, though beneath it his eyes were gleaming an eerie dark, bloodied red that was glaringly obvious in the dimly-lit hall.  
  
Her face went white. “Considering you immediately changed the setting, no. You don’t have information to give worth enough to get my secrets, Riddle.” Her voice remained steady, as did the hand holding her wand, and she was proud of those small victories, because she hadn’t seen anything so terrifying as his gleaming, red eyes since the last time she’d been face to face with a considerably different Dark Lord, and that had been an entirely different sort of fear. This was like childhood monster under the bed, red eyes in the dead of night sort of fear, but worse. Because suddenly, the monster was real.  
  
“And that is why, Granger, this game has changed. It’s only just beginning, really,” he said, taking another step forward. A hex flared from the tip of her wand. His own was out in an instant, snapping the hex away and sending it skittering over the floor of the corridor and off into the darkness as the torches flickered dangerously, sputtering in some sort of strange, unnoticed wind that never touched her. “Are you quite done?”  
  
“No, Riddle, there is no game. I am not a toy or a puzzle to work out.”  
  
“There is for me,” he murmured.  
  
She laughed coldly. “Then have fun on your own, because I’m not playing.”  
  
He ignored her, smiling cheerfully as he reached out, and slowly, hand shaking with the struggle of it, clenched his fist tightly, and tore downward. A piece of her ward ripped away along with the motion, and she felt and watched the barely-there iridescent wards crumple away from that missing piece, disintegrating from the point of damage until there was nothing between him and her but cold, open air.  
  
He stepped forward, closing the space between them until he was bare inches away, hands loose at his sides. For all that either hall was open, for all that she could probably manage to run a bit before he caught her, she couldn’t move. She was frozen, shaking ever so slightly, her wand still steady but she didn’t think she could have casted if she’d wanted to. He’d literally ripped her ward apart.  
  
A smile curved upon his lips, and a small chuckle escaped him, as he lightly pressed a finger to the length of her wand and pushed it down, until it hung loosely at her side. “Round one’s over, Granger,” he stated, smirking. “I think, perhaps, I’ll call it a draw, though I’d say it leans in my favor.”  
  
She didn’t speak, but she met his gaze, full of hate.  
  
“Round two starts later. What do you say, I’ll give you a bit of a break then, mm?” he suggested, finger slowly sliding up her wand, and over the palm of her hand.  
  
She was collecting herself, having learned early on that you couldn’t stay frozen forever _and he was touching her._ She growled, and, sent the first curse she could think of at point blank, a vicious stinging curse, directly into his nearby hand.  
  
It seemed to snap loudly as it collided with some sort of barrier, not even making contact with his skin before turning back on herself. She jolted as it ripped through her, and let out a pained whimper, but quickly cast it off.  
  
“Have a good afternoon, Granger,” he purred, stepping away from her. “Let me know, if you want that book.” And with that he was off down the hall, whistling a cheerful tune to himself as he receded into the darkness.  
  
Either he was stupid or overly confident, as she quickly set of two curses in his direction, one that landed him face first into the stone floor.  
  
“Maybe a bit sooner, then, if you’re not wanting a break,” he corrected, rising off the floor where he fell as they collided with his back, holding a hand to the bloody rip in his sleeve before examining it emotionlessly.  
  
“Get out or you’ll get more of where that came from,” she hissed.  
  
“I was, in fact, on my way,” he said, turning slowly to face her, wand rising as he did so. “Care to throw another curse, Granger? I can tell you I’ll return it twofold.”  
  
“Tit for tat, Riddle. You touched me, and I always get revenge for that. Though I wouldn’t say no to a duel, as I’m pretty furious.”  
  
“Sore spot for you?” he asked, smirking. “Oh, you’re not getting a fight right now, Granger. Not like this. Later though,”  he promised, eyes gleaming.  
  
She snorted. “You seem to think you control this?” And she sent a few more, to prove that he was wrong.  
  
The lesser ones seemed to automatically deflect, as soon as they reached close enough to make contact, oddly. Vaguely she realized he must be wearing a warding amulet or something of the sort, because no-one could wandlessly deflect that sort of magic, not old magic.  
  
It just made her determined to send stronger spells.  
  
The hall was in ruins by the time she finished, split stone riddling the walls and cracking tiles at the impact of her magic upon them. And in the center of it all, Riddle stood, a cold sort of light in his eyes, beneath a deep, iridescent red far more prevalent than that of a few minutes before, clutching at his heavily-bleeding arm, and grinning like a maniac for all his disarray.  
  
“I am not a toy, Riddle, or anything of the sort, and you _will_ learn that one way or another. If you’re smart, you’ll back off.”  
  
“Oh but I was never one to back off from a challenge, Granger,” he hissed, grin widening. “So you can try and ‘teach me’, if you really care to, though I doubt the lesson will take.”  
  
“Yes because, for all your book smarts, you’re clearly an idiot,” she stated.  
  
“Descending to petty insults, are we? I think I know who’s really won here, Granger,” he said, straightening his tie, uncaring of the blood.  
  
“No, it’s just a statement,” she said, and a small incendio nearly set his tie on fire.  
  
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll be seeing you later,” he hissed, turning sharply on the spot and slipping into an unseen passage in the cover of darkness.  
  
She stood there for a few moments, fueled by a rush of fear and adrenaline. But then, as he didn’t come back, it slowly faded, and she looked at the wreckage and the small bit of blood on the floor. Absently, she recalled exactly what sort of horrors she could inflict upon him with his blood in various spells, most of them dark. But really she didn’t care. It was all part of the fight, and when her life was on the line she wasn’t going to pull any punches. They had reached the second floor, but she summoned an empty bottle from Slughorn’s office, that she’d seen.  
  
She’d drawn his blood.  
  
 _She’d drawn his blood._  
  
If there was ever any small chance, that he would leave her be, even if he managed to get what he wanted, then it was gone now. She wasn’t going to let such an opportunity pass her by. The vial came into her hand, and with a simple spell the blood lifted off the floor and slowly poured itself into the vial. There was no small amount of it, really, she’d hit him hard and deep. There would be more than enough, for what she had planned if he _ever_ dared to lay a _single finger_ on her again.    
  
She put the vial in her pocket, to later be carefully warded and stored in her beaded bag. This was a dangerous weapon, and had to be hidden.  
  
Riddle was wrong, she thought. The odds weren’t leaning in his favor, not at all. And he didn’t even know it.

* * *

For all that she held the comforting awareness that she had a secret little hold on Riddle, she couldn’t sleep. She was haunted by thoughts of what Riddle and Dumbledore could do to her, and what little she could do in retaliation. She basically had nothing, and the thought left her cold, hope having died and coating her heart in ash. What little she’d managed to carry when she’d found small comfort with her aunt and uncle disappeared.  
  
She wanted to go home, and go live with them again. But she had things to do. She couldn’t hide with them forever, and Hogwarts would help her learn more.  
  
Grindlewald couldn’t know what she’d learned about the Deathly Hallows. What even her father hadn’t known, only having gone through the first half of his notes, judging by what had been still in the hidden safe. They’d suspected, together, that the Deathly Hallows did not grant immortality, as was commonly believed. He’d suspected that the Hallows had been made by the British Peverell brothers, strangely lost in history, though what mentions made of them spoke of them as very powerful and dangerous.  
  
No, she hadn’t been sure so she hadn’t told her father. He’d loathed any sort of guess work, wanting it to be clear and nearly irrefutable before he’d follow through on the information. He so hated coming to dead ends in his research, and there had been so very many. No, she believed that being “The Master of Death” gave the ability not to live forever, but to call back the dead _completely_ and control them, like almost human again, able to do what they’d done before--but as controlable as Inferi.  
  
It was, after all, the literal implication of the title. And one that everyone, so deeply seemed to ignore, caught up in the mythos of it all rather than in the most obvious hints. It had to have been dark magic, of the worst kind. And imagining that falling into Grindelwald’s hands...or Dumbledore’s, or even Riddle’s...it’d be a disaster. An entire, willing, completely controlled army of the dead could be raised.  
  
That was the main reason she was in Britain, even more than to be with her family. This was just a temporary stop to heal and prepare. No, the Deathstick had passed between the most powerful people all over Europe, but the other Hallows seemed to have disappeared. They were never spoken of and, most likely, had passed through family lines. And those family lines would be, most likely, British. Or at the very least, she could trace them from the origins.If she were lucky enough to find a way to get into the Ministry hall of records, really, she could trace them all the way back, if she worked hard enough at it. Though she doubted she’d live long enough to sneak into the job of Ministry Researcher, not like this.  
  
But, if she did...as long as she lived, she was going to try to get the other two Hallows before Grindlewald, or any of the other numerous wizards and witches who were out scouring the land for the smallest hint of their presence.  
  
But, really, Hogwarts was clearly becoming almost as dangerous as her life had been in Germany, and then in France, over the past fourteen months. It was a different sort of battlefield, but a dangerous one nonetheless. And as brave as she thought she was, she was so _weary_ of fighting. She’d hoped for peace, just for a while. It seemed, even that small bit of refuge was too much to ask.  
  
 _Dear Uncle Redge,_  
  
 _I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this. I tried, I really tried, but being around just this many people is hard enough as it is. I don’t know how I’ll manage when the students come back--_  
  
Hermione crumpled up the letter, tossing it into the air and sending a vicious incendio in its direction. The little flakes of burned parchment scattered about her like snow, and she put her head down on the library table. She’d been composing letter after letter to her aunt and uncle. She knew they’d expect a reply soon, and she was torn between lying and saying all was fine, and saying the truth; that she was in hell and needed to get out before she was burnt up.  
  
 _Dear Mina,_  
  
 _I don’t think your book on rune magic and embroidery is going to be enough to keep me safe. Or the amulet. I don’t think anything will be enough to protect me really, I have the eyes of three Dark Lords on me, two of them in hiding and another an ocean away, but I’m scared, I’m so scared and I just want to go home--_  
  
She burned that one too, even as the her tears dotted the parchment and diluted the ink. Sniffling and wiping her hand across her eyes, she stared dully at the sheet before her, dotted with the ashes of those that had come before. She couldn’t. She couldn’t tell them what was happening. There was no real evidence of it, no proof, nothing in all of Britain that could really keep her safe if she went and hid under her bed-covers in their comfortable London townhouse.  
  
 _Dear Mina,_  
  
 _I want to go home. I want to sit on the persian carpet in front of the fireplace and drink hot chocolate while my mother tells me fairytales. I want to crack open the curses holding together a dusty old tome and tear the secrets from its pages with my father. I want to go home. I want to go home so badly, so very, very badly and I don’t have a home to go back to anymore. I’ll never be safe. I realize that now, and it’s eating me alive. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open but I’m more afraid of the nightmares that I’d face were they to close than I am of being weak, of being vulnerable to attack. And I know even if I go home to you both I still won’t escape it. There are two Dark Lords right here in Britain, and if either of them found out what I’m hiding they’d never, never let me go. Not that one of them will let me go as it is, I don’t think. His eyes never leave, if I’m within range of him, and they burn and I want to kill him even as I want to run screaming away..._  
  
She burnt that one too, having collected quite a pile of ash on her table, which she banished away. Her eyes were burning from more than the small flames. Shoving her chair away from the table and snatching up the remaining pile of parchment, she stalked off into the stacks, rubbing her wrist viciously over her eyes. She longed for sleep. Sometimes she felt herself drifting off even as she stood, but still she fought it off. She didn’t even know why anymore. She’d even welcome a nightmare-filled slumber, if only to relieve some of this agony. This wasn’t the crushing exhaustion she felt after days of insomnia, which she could live with. This was a battle of wills, and she was winning. And she wanted to lose but was scared of being unaware for even a second.  
  
She leaned her head slowly against a bookshelf, breathing in sharp, sobbing gasps as her fingers clutched at the edge of the wooden shelving, trailing over the base of a book’s spine. She couldn’t even find comfort here. Not even among her books, when they’d been there for her for so many years before. She leaned bonelessly against the shelf, feeling hazy and half-dozing.  
  
She’d been avoiding Riddle every time he came into the library, and arrived early to dinner to sit far away from him. She had the childish, slightly desperate notion that if she avoided him that he would go away. She didn’t think so, though. His gaze turned to her far too often.  
  
Fingers slid over her shoulders, and down her arms to clamp suddenly over her wrists from behind. “Hello, Granger,” Riddle purred against her ear.  
  
Her papers fell from under her arm, and she struggled against the hold in an attempt to get to her wand. Even as she got a hold on it, he pressed his fingers down painfully tight upon her wrist until her hand automatically released it, that last little bit of protection falling from numb fingers and gently clattering onto the wood floor, the sound almost entirely muffled. Neither, too, had the papers that dropped made even the smallest noise as they fluttered down to scatter about them.  
  
“Muffling wards,” she grumbled. Even for all her exhaustion, she was aware now, pumped full of false energy.  
  
“So very quick on the uptake,” he teased, lips curving against the side of her neck.  
  
She physically tried to move her head away from the contact, shuddering. “No one’s ever accused me of stupidity.”  
  
“And for good reason.”  
  
Trying to ignore the rising panic at the restraining physical contact, she extended her magic to try to find the edges of the wards. With a dawning horror she realized that it extended further than her magic could reach. “You’ve been planning this.” This was bad. She wasn’t even in a remotely well-watched section of the library, no, she’d been an idiot and wanted privacy to write her letters and had sacrificed her safety as a result. They were far from Ms. Vance, too far.  
  
He chuckled quietly. “No, you’re unusually skittish. I had to do this a few times. But I got lucky today. And I’m so very, very pleased. Round two has begun, Granger,” he whispered in her ear. “Are you ready?”    
  
“No,” she said, honest in her exhaustion, and her voice came out as little but a weak sob. Damn him. Damn him to the fieriest pits of hell. “And why are you so close?”  
  
“Because I know it bothers you, of course,” he hissed, tightening his grip on her wrists even as he stepped closer, and her front was pressed lightly against the bookshelf.  
  
“And, you lied, when you said you weren’t looking for the points to stab me emotionally, and yet you claimed I stopped the game?” she said, amazed she could remember anything at all. She was continually trying, and unable, to repress her shudders.  
  
“Of course I did. People lie, Granger, I’d think that’s been driven into your skull right now but it’s almost sad how hopeful you are that you’ll be wrong about it.”  
  
She laughed bitterly. “You claim it’s a game, and yet there are no rules.”  
  
“Oh but you haven’t even asked what the rules are, Her-mi-o-ne,” he chuckled. His breath was hot against her skin, and she clenched her teeth, holding back a scream.  
  
“It’s Granger, to you, Riddle,” she snapped. She had to find that calm place. She had to. She felt for it, working on trying to find the ability to away.  
  
Calm. Calm, breathe, she had to be calm, just close her eyes and forget about where she was, what was happening. Just on what she needed to do. Breathe, think of home. Think of formulas and books and her favorite one, and just recite it, word for word. J _ust think about the words, Hermione. Nothing else, and you can get through this,_ she told herself.  
  
It calmed her, and the shudders stopped, as she began reciting the Code of Hammurabi.  
  
“ Round one was great fun,” he chuckled. “But I have bigger projects in mind. And I told you, Granger, _I want some answers._ Real ones, this time.”  
  
She had it. She whipped her head to the side, feeling it connect--not strongly, but enough, and wrench her wrists, trying to get free, and kicked him back in the shins.  
  
He grimaced against the back of her neck, obviously fighting the pain, and for a moment she felt triumph rush through her as she wrenched her wrists. At least, that was until he slammed her face-first into the bookshelf, his entire body crushing against her own, and whispered, breath hot against her skin, “Oh, we’re going to have fun, you and I, if you keep fighting me like this, aren’t we?”  
  
She was rushed with a renewed sense of alarm and panic-- _”We’re going to have fun, aren’t we, doll?”--_ and her struggles renewed, damning the pain. She wrench her hands back, aiming for his face, but he grabbed them hard enough to bruise, fingernails digging into her skin hard enough to draw blood as he pressed them tightly to the bookshelf, further heightening the contact between them.  
  
She groaned at the mess of pain that seemed to encompass the entire front of her body from being mashed into such an unforgiving surface. “Let me go!” she snarled, and she was relieved that she sounded much more brave than she felt.  
  
“Not a chance,” he breathed against her neck, and she gulped soundlessly in terror at what that could mean.  
  
She couldn’t let this happen she couldn’t let this happen _she wouldn’t survive if it happened again_ ran like a mantra through her mind, and in desperation she turned her head painfully against the book spines to face his wand hand, wondering if she could bite it and make him let go. She glared hotly even as the panic rose when she realized that she couldn’t reach, and she was about to turn towards the other hand when she saw it, in his ring--the sign of the Deathly Hallows.  
  
She gaped at it in shock, stunned for a moment, before examining it more closely. Yes, in the ring itself was a smooth, black stone that could only mean one thing: Tom Riddle was the unfortunate owner of the Resurrection Stone. She tried to think clearly about the situation, but the line of his whole body against hers was making her nauseated and dizzy. He was physically everywhere, and the memories burned through her bright and clear as they day they first were made and she, ashamed, leaned her head to the side and was sick, again, with horrid fear and nerves. She was too exhausted to be handling this.  
  
“Evanesco,” he said, annoyed. At least it got on his pants leg and shoes. Hopefully his socks too. Even with that, the smell wouldn’t go away.  
  
“You’re disgusting,” she grated out, ignoring the resultant taste in her mouth.  
  
“I’m not the one who just vomited, really,” he stated, sounding disdainfully amused.  
  
She had to calm down again. She couldn’t panic. She’d lost track because she’d realized he had a Hallow. That was the last thing she needed to do. If anything, she had to be more focused. What to do. What to do. Riddle had a Hallow, he had the Ressurection Stone, _what to do?_  
  
The panic rose in her again, fresh and hot and painful as her head pounded in time with the beat of her heart. She bit it down desperately. She’d fought it off before. She could fight it again. She wasn’t weak.  
  
“That better? Calmed down a bit, have we?” he asked, and the gentleness of his tone made her feel like she wanted to throw up all over again.  
  
“Considering you just shoved me face-first into a bookshelf, you buffoon, it’s going to take me a second to readjust. So sorry you feel like I’m being tardy in my responses.”  
  
“Oh you’re doing just fine, Granger, E for effort, though you haven’t quite exceeded my expectations yet,” he laughed.  
  
“Like I give a shit about your expectations.” This was good. She kept up her anger, letting it keep her from panicking. She wondered if his head was close enough, and she reared back again, but was only rewarded with being pulled back and mashed against the shelves once more, harder this time. It was a battle between her weight, his, and that of the bookshelf, that decided just how much it was going to hurt. The bookshelf won tremendously. She hissed in anger and pain, and when she could speak again she growled, “Really, throwing me against a bookshelf? For someone so brilliant, I thought you might be more creative.”  
  
“Effective, though, regardless of lack of creativity. Petrificus Totalus.”  
  
Hermione’s whole body went rigid as a plank of wood, her face frozen in a defiant glare. That was good for her facade, though, because if she’d had any ability for it to move at all then it would have been expressing pure panic. If she could move her mouth, she’d have been screaming.  
  
The Dagworth-Granger amulet! Why wasn’t it working? It was supposed to take care of minor spells. Some fat use it had been. But then she remembered. Power of the spell depended on the power of the caster and their intent. And _Riddle was so very powerful..._  
  
He turned her then carefully, laying her back against the bookshelf and stepping forward between her legs to take her face in his hands. The spell seemed to loosen just the slightest bit then, at his touch, as if he were picking it apart and rearranging it at will, until her gaze met his directly and her head froze once again in that position.  
  
Her mind raced, and with a growing sense of panic an idea began to form in her head as to what he could be planning. Her mind viciously shied away from the possibility of him doing anything physical, _she just could not go there or she wouldn’t get out of this alive,_ and he’d moved away as soon as he’d frozen her, so instead focused on the magical implications. Dark wizard. Direct eye contact, stable positioning. It was a rare branch of magic, but he clearly was shown to have the ability to research...and the signs pointed to Legilimency. She raised instinctive mental shields, but they wouldn’t hold, not really. Not against someone like Riddle, even if his grasp of legilimency was only the barest sort.  
  
Riddle regarded her almost speculatively as he leaned forward, looking directly into brown eyes that had widened to their limits as they stared back. “Legilimens,” he murmured, and the last waking thought was that she was lost at sea in those stormy gray-blue eyes, and she hoped the waters didn’t swallow her whole.  
  
And then she was in her mental mindscape, but a roiling black storm was roaring through it. If she’d had the ability then she would have screamed until her throat was raw. This wasn’t subtle or careful--it was tearing through, ripping violently at her paltry defenses. He cast them aside with the force of a hurricane, and then she was underwater, being hauled right along with him as he dove deep into her memories, flitting through them with near impossible speed and tossing them aside when he didn’t find what he was looking for.  
  
Then the storm calmed, momentarily, and her mindscape was filled with a memory she would not have wanted to share with him in the slightest.  
  
 _“Wo ist die kleine Schlampe, eh?” The shadowed figure of a grey-cloaked member of the Hallowed Guard kicked over a partially-incinerated corpse, teeth bared in a soundless snarl._  
*”Where is the little bitch, eh?”  
  
 _"Geduld. Wir wissen, dass sie in der Nähe ist." murmured the tall man who stood some distance behind the other, resplendent in a black military uniform similar to those borne by the Nazis, stroking the short blond beard upon his chin speculatively. "Tötet die anderen! Alles was wir brauchen, ist das Mädchen."_  
* “Patience, we know she is near. Kill the others, all we need is the girl.”  
  
 _“Ils vous voulez,” Alfons whispered to her, eyes wide. “Tu n’as jamais dit que Grindelwald était hors de votre sang!”_  
* “They want you, you never said that Grindelwald himself was out for your blood!”  
  
 _She and another member of her party, Alfons--he was new to the group but was the only person among them who had seen as much battle as she--were hiding under a partially destroyed building, barely even breathing as they watched the enemies that had been chasing them, sometimes even openly, for fifty miles over the past couple of days. It had been sheer dumb luck in some of those instances that they’d escaped._  
  
 _“Ssssh,” she hissed harshly, glaring at the younger boy.  “Vous nous donner et il ne sera pas n'importe qui ils sont, après, que nous allons tous mourir de toute façon!”_  
*You will give us away and then it won’t matter who they are after, as we will all die anyway!  
  
 _He glared at her, but didn’t speak again, turning quietly back towards the other officers. They were obnoxiously merry, seemingly unaware that the topic of their conversation was listening in. Her body was tense like a pulled string, fading remnants of his power oozing absently around her. But it was just traces--if it had been searching then she would have run, Alfons be damned. Considering it had been her presence that had resulted in the deaths of the rest of their party, it wouldn’t matter to add more blood to her hands._  
  
 _"Herr Grindelwald," one of the Guard began, addressing the tall, almost hawk-like blond man, "Wir haben stundenlang gesucht. Könnten sie weiter gezogen sein?"_  
* “Lord Grindelwald, we have been looking for hours, could they have moved on?”  
  
 _She and Alfons shared a look of complete shock as fear descended, paralyzing them where they stood, frozen in the small pocket beneath the rubble of the partially-collapsed building, looking out through the slats of a wooden crate. If they moved on, it would be an unexpected boon. If not...they were doomed._  
  
 _"Habe ich Sie nicht aufgefordert, Geduld zu haben, Friedmann?" In a downward slash of his wand, the man lay at Grindelwald's feet, screaming piteously. "Ihr Jammern ermüdet mich, Junge."_  
* “Did I not say to have patience, Friedmann? I tire of your whining, boy.”  
  
 _If she could, she would have swore. Not only was the Dark Lord here, but he’d brought some of his best people with him. What had she done wrong to be spotted? She had been in a few close calls, but she hadn’t met any of the major figures orbiting Grindelwald since she’d crossed the German border._  
  
 _"Ruhe!" he snapped, and the Hallowed Guard froze about him, scanning the area warily. "Breitet euch aus! Sie sind hier, und zwar nah._  
* “Silence! Spread out. They are here, and close.”  
  
 _After finishing with his brief bit of fun torturing his minion, Grindelwald turned around and looked around him pensively, and then his eyes froze on their hiding spot..._  
  
She wrenched away from the memory with a gasp, and she felt a wave of discontent from her intruder at the memory cutting off early. Before she could catch bearing of what was happening around her again, Riddle had torn his way into another.  
  
 _It was just another quiet dinner in the countryside, sequestered away in a small, rotted old barn some miles beyond the outskirts of Paris where suburban living gave way to farmland. They were as close as they dared to be in such times. The Nazis had just captured Paris, and Grindelwald’s forces had come trailing after._  
  
 _Helena was giggling at something that her brother Flynn had said, and her young laughter seemed to renew most of the others with energy that had long been lacking. She was pretty, really. Cheerful and ladylike. Everything Hermione couldn’t be. Her smile had a brightness to it that she’d lost months ago, and even as she followed her brother through hostile territory, she talked with great fervor of going to America after they reached Britain._  
  
 _Hermione herself, unfortunately, didn’t feel the same sense of renewal, even as she liked the girl. She’d long since given up talking unless absolutely necessary or to perform spellwork, the cotton more often than not almost suffocating her. She dug into the can of beans that they’d managed to steal from a convoy a while back. It was a veritable feast._  
  
 _“Parlez-nous un autre, ‘Elen,” chuckled one of the older among their group; he’d been a hardened auror, before Grindelwald took over. Most of those among the government had joined or died, but Gestalt had killed six of Grindelwald’s men and fled with his family, cursing his very name as he went. He was a good man and a good father, though she didn’t dwell on it. Seeing him bounce his little daughter on his knee only brought back painful memories of her own._  
* “Tell us another, ‘Elen.”  
  
 _Helena was about to start another story when the closed barn door was blown off of its hinges, smoking as it fell in the dirt. It was only seconds before it was pure chaos, spells being thrown left and right, and no one could tell through the fray who they were firing at._  
  
 _Before she knew it, Gestalt was dead on the floor and his baby girl screaming beside him. Helena snatched the infant up in her arms, rushing for cover even as she drew her wand, tears catching the light of flying curses as they ran down her face._  
  
 _Hermione was up and on her feet in less than half a second, dodging curses as she ran for the back of the barn. There was no way that they could get through the exit--there would undoubtedly be more in the front. She raised her wand, screaming to Helena to follow her and blasted a hole in the back wall. Those who had learned, over the past few months, that she had gotten good at escaping followed the sound of her rarely-heard voice._  
  
 _Helena caught up with her, gasping and sobbing as she leaned over, clutching Hermione’s hand tightly in her own. She almost ripped it away in revulsion at the touch, but she didn’t, realizing it could mean leaving the teen and the baby to die._  
  
 _“‘Mione,” Helena sobbed, “Où est Flynn?”_  
* “Where is Flynn?”  
  
 _“Je ne sais pas, mais nous ne pouvons pas arrêter. Nous devons continuer à courir. Si il le fait, alors vous trouverez l'autre nouveau,” she said, tightening her grip on Helena’s hand._  
* “I don’t know, but we can’t stop. We have to keep running. If he makes it then you’ll find each other again.”  
  
 _They kept moving, disappearing into a cornfield. The stalks cut them to ribbons, but they didn’t stop. Hermione heard the baby starting to whine in protest, and she quickly threw up a Silencing Charm, holding her breath that they hadn’t been given away._  
  
 _They managed  to get almost halfway through, before Helena’s legs gave out and she collapsed in the dirt, gasping. She was a frail thing, really, all looks and no strength, but Hermione could see fire in her expression as she gripped her hand and pulled herself back up, readjusting her hold on the infant before ripping the shawl from her shoulders and tying the babe to her to keep her hands free. The infant descended into hiccuping sobs, eerily silent in the midst of the field as Helena shushed it gently, petting the peach fuzz on her head._  
  
 _Hermione was focused on listening for any followers. She could distantly hear the sounds of battle, though it was quickly dying off, but around them all was relatively quiet._  
  
 _It wasn’t for some minutes, not until the smell of smoke reached them and began to rise over the edge of their line of sight, that it occurred to her that they had set the field afire._  
  
 _With a quiet, vicious curse, Hermione told the girl to run and was about to continue when Helena grabbed her hand again, tugging on it sharply. “Où allons-nous répondre?”_  
* “Where will we meet?”  
  
 _“Nous n'avons pas le temps pour ça!” she snarled._  
* “We don’t have time for this!”  
  
 _“Puis, me tenir la main. Il ne faut pas se séparer, vous ne trouverez jamais les uns les autres!”_  
* “Then hold my hand. We shouldn’t get separated, we’ll never find each other!”  
  
 _Frustrated, Hermione gripped the girl’s hand and dragged her through the cornfield, ignoring the raging fire--clearly Fiendfyre--that was nipping at the back of their heels._  
  
 _"ERGREIFT SIE!" Grindelwald's voice roared over the field, doubly as loud as empowered by a sonorous charm._  
* “GET THEM!”  
  
 _There were choruses of agreement from nearly every direction, and she felt her blood run cold even as she ran faster, pulling Helena along beside her. They cleared the field and dove for another, running as fast as they could, and Hermione killed the Guard that spotted them as they moved from one to the next with a well-placed curse. Helena stared at her, wide-eyed for a moment, obviously having recognized that it was of dark origin, but Hermione didn’t care and there was no time to bother going over the uses of dark magic in battle situations._  
  
Hermione felt herself mentally come up for air, removed from that memory as her intruder decided that he’d seen enough. He started digging through them again, seemingly even more determined. She knew the pattern of what he was looking for, though--he had just proven that she was wanted by Grindelwald, and that he had come after her _personally_ , and now he was undoubtedly looking for why.  
  
Hermione panicked at the consequences of Riddle gaining knowledge about the Hallows. He was already in possession of one, and as greedy as he was there was no doubt in her mind that he would want the others.  
  
She’d nearly died many times over protecting that knowledge, and she’d be damned if Riddle stole it from her head! Fueled by fury and desperation, with a strength she hadn’t known she’d possessed, she caught him just as he was about to drag her down into another memory, attempting to haul him right back up to the surface along with her, but he was nearly impossible to move. She would have to force him out, break his concentration.  
  
There was only one thing that she had in her arsenal that could possibly distract him from his quest--and even then, considering his own sadistic tendencies, it might not even work. But it was the only chance she had. She pictured it clearly in her mind, the night of the attack on her family, and she lunged into the storm that represented Riddle’s presence, forcing him to turn to the presence--and thus her memories.  
  
 _Red filled her mind, her head, red and pain and terror and screaming that never stopped but never made it to her lips, lines of blood bubbling in the wake of an old knife as it carved across her belly. The feel of a calloused palm crushing her wrists, cerulean blue eyes and yellow teeth and gleeful laughter, and "Keine Sorge, Liebling. Ich bin bald fertig und dann wirst du nicht mehr lange weinen..."_  
* “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll be done soon and you won’t be crying much longer.”  
  
 _And the knife dug in again and again and again, growing more violent and rough with each puncture of her skin., and then it was skin on skin and she really was screaming, thrashing with what energy she still had within her, even as a part of her planned his death and her escape..._  
  
Riddle stumbled back away from her to hit the bookshelf opposite, a hand over his mouth, eyes widened to their limits. “Ugh...”  
  
“Enjoy your trip down Granger Lane?” she asked acerbically even as she was internally crowing at the fact that the spell had faded enough that she could speak, and almost move her fingertips. She ignored the tears that she hadn’t realized had been falling, continuously, from the very start.  
  
“That was...” Riddle closed his eyes, throat working soundlessly. “I...ugh.”  
  
“I hope it makes you sick,” she said. “Good riddance to you for digging around where you weren’t wanted.”  
  
Riddle slid down the bookshelf to the floor, not caring for the pain of the shelves on his back. “That was...a completely senseless act of violence,” he said, almost in wonderment that humanity had the capacity to commit such things upon others.  
  
Hermione snorted. “Says the man who shoved me into a bookcase for no reason other than he was playing a sadistic game.” She bit her bottom lip, as she was getting over the relief of having escaped his mental attack, and now having to very vividly remember the worst night of her life, in minute detail.  
  
Riddle almost had the decency to look visibly ashamed, actively trying to hide it, but the mask suddenly dropped entirely, and he just sat bonelessly against the shelf, eyes closed. “Finite.” The word dropped from his lips like lead, dull and empty.  
  
Hermione abruptly collapsed into a heap on the floor, her head banging off the shelves on the way down. All of her extremities tingled painfully from the lack of use, and she couldn’t even move to wipe away the burning tears that still flowed down her cheeks, even as she willed them uselessly to stop. Some part of her, inside, was screaming right along with the little girl of her memories.  
  
Unable to let her mind go there, she decided instead to turn hate-filled eyes onto the person sitting across from her. “The fact that you look so shaken is _so_ hypocritically hilarious. What did you _think_ I fucking went through to get swear words in multiple languages carved into my skin?”  
  
The shock melted off his face as if it had never been. In three breaths, he drew himself back up to his typical stature and posture, dusting himself off a bit before directing an annoyed look at her, and she realized that perhaps, whatever had affected him had absolutely nothing to do with the violence that had occurred to her, and more to do with him being forcibly tossed from her head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a swatch of white cloth and dangled it before her where she curled up on the floor and offered it with a smile. “Handkerchief?”  
  
She stared up at him stupidly for a few moments, and then barked out a laugh through her tears. “Sorry, did I offend you by suspecting you had momentarily experienced some sort of empathy? And no thank you, feel free to take your fake politeness and shove it.”  
  
His lips curled into a sneer. “It is a pity you were victimized pointlessly. But I’m not going to form my entire opinion of you solely based upon the fact that you’re a little broken doll, because you’re obviously anything but. You’re fragile, Granger, but still dangerous. Even so, if I went into your head again you’d probably just break. But there are other ways of getting information from someone,” he purred, “than going directly to the source.”    
  
“How wonderful that you’re so open minded,” she said sarcastically. She really did suffer from some sort of masochistic tendency to pick at and defy people far bigger and scarier than herself...but she didn’t like the other option. “Try not to cut yourself on the jagged, broken pieces.”  
  
He sniffed. “If there is any blood to be shed here I can assure you it won’t be mine. But be that as it may, there are more important matters at hand, than the unfortunate history of your scars. Though, it was Hesseline, wasn’t it?” he asked, visibly curious as his disdain melted away. “He doesn’t typically leave his victims with their throats intact, though. Why are you different?”  
  
Hermione went entirely pale beneath her already waxen complexion. There were so many, _many_ things wrong here. Why would he know about Hesseline’s proclivities for torture--actually, scratch that, she could very well see why he would be interested. But it left the fact that he’d literally _recognized_ her attacker from the images he’d seen. _That_ was more than cause for concern. “Why would you even know that?”  
  
“It’s been in the papers for the past six months; they found four houses he’d been through with his brother and the rest of Grindelwald’s ‘Hallowed Guard’. Four girls, all with their throats slit and bodies cut to ribbons from head to toe--much like yourself, actually. I really should have seen it sooner, the similarities.”  
  
“How would you even know, they wouldn’t release that sort of information in the paper--”  
  
“Contacts,” he said simply, even as she latched on to yet another idea beyond this new piece of knowledge that Riddle had his thumb in a few different rather _specific_ pies. _Six months ago in the paper._  
  
“That is completely impossible,” she said, wanting to believe it was true but she saw no reason for Riddle to lie about this information. Anxiety coiled through her bloodstream, making her want to get up and just _leave,_ not caring where she was going or where she ended up. She just wanted to get away from him, and the horrible implication he had left her with moments before.  
  
“Why is that?” Riddle questioned, seemingly puzzled by her reaction.  
  
“I hit him at close range with a blasting curse. At the very least it should have pulverized his intestines,” she said, panicking, scared, and furious.  
  
“Impressive,” he murmured, eyes widening as a smile curved over his mouth. “Managing something such as that in such a desperate situation certainly says something about your strength of will, if not your magical prowess.”  
  
The fact that he was impressed by that was absolutely repulsive. “I survived,” she said shortly, not rising to the bait of defending how powerful her spell had been. Considering what she had been through, it would have to be enough.  
  
“Still, he’s alive,” Riddle said, regarding her less passively, now, from where he leaned against the bookshelf. “Apparently you didn’t hit him hard enough. If you need proof they caught his picture in the paper. There’s a few of the crime scenes, too, though they covered the gore.”  
  
The cotton was thick in her throat now, but she finally managed to get out, “Where?”  
  
“France, twice. One in Poland though they think it may have been his brother; the crime scene was different. The last was here, in Britain, though I only know about that because I have contacts. They didn’t dare report it in the papers because of the panic it would cause.”  
  
“Merlin,” she breathed out, curling in on herself, hugging her arms around her tightly.  
  
Riddle’s head raised, then, catching her eyes. “You think he’s coming for you?”  
  
“Why would you suspect that?” It wasn’t any of his damn business, and she’d die before she let him know that. What little information she had left was not going to be given to Riddle freely.  
  
“Well, it fits. He’s killed like this before. Several times. But he didn’t finish the job with you, he wouldn’t be able to let that sit. I would place all my bets that the trail of corpses he’s leaving behind follows your path of escape. You came up from Germany through France, too. And all of them had light brown hair and were around your age, which wasn’t the case, before you escaped.”  
  
She was speechless. If she hadn’t thrown up before, she would have then. Oh god, he was coming for her. It was more than Dark Lords hunting her personally. She wanted to disappear, crawl home, _something._  
  
But the Resurrection Stone was here, with Riddle. That changed everything. She couldn’t leave now.    
  
“Yes, I’ve been keeping track of him. Nasty piece of work, he is, one of the girls he got was a student here, named Myrtle. Muggleborn, brown hair, rather bookish actually,” he said slowly, piecing together from memory. “She was a grade below, happened the first Hogsmeade weekend. Turned up a week later, in a ditch on the outskirts of the town, clearly his work. It didn’t reach the papers, but a lot of parents that heard removed their children from the school.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers.  
  
“Would you shut up?” she asked, not wanting to hear about Hesseline’s latest victim. The poor British Hogwarts student that had died in her stead. Surprisingly, he did, watching her carefully.  
  
Oh Merlin, wasn’t that village just outside of Hogwarts the one he was talking about? Hogsmeade? _He’d been close. And could still be._  
  
She needed to look at that Foe Glass. To see if he was close, looking at her, hiding in the shadows of Britain. She grabbed the bookcase and pushed herself up, only for her legs to give out beneath her the moment she released it. “Oh Merlin, I can’t do this,” she gasped out, exhausted, before she thought about it.  
  
“...You think he’s coming for you,” Riddle said slowly.  
  
“Congratulations, Riddle, on your astute assessment,” she bit out hatefully. “Look like you have competition on who’ll kill me first.” She realized that probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to say.  
  
“I don’t want to kill you,” he said, oddly annoyed.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. She’d accepted she’d die young some time ago. She’d made peace, as much as she could, with life, and wasn’t afraid of dying anymore. But she’d thought she’d be a little more emotional at the prospect once it came.  
  
“Why not?” she asked wearily, rubbing her eyes.  
  
“Well obviously for one, the game would end. And secondly I have absolutely no reason to do so.”  
  
She chuckled, but it was pained. “You know as well as I do that the end of the game will be death.”  
  
“But I don’t want it to end,” he said, and really it couldn’t have sounded any less like a petulant child whining about the possibility of not getting their way. “That would be boring.”  
  
Oh Merlin. He was completely and utterly mad. She couldn’t handle this. She tried standing up again and was satisfied that, with the fact that, with support, she was standing. She didn’t dare try to stand without the support, let alone try to walk, though.  
  
“He’s not getting you, you know.”  
  
“Don’t like sharing your toys? You’d think as an orphan you’d have learned early on to share.”  
  
He stiffened visibly, eyes narrowing. She met his gaze and smirked. Good. “Not really,” he said, his voice airy. “But he’s not. I’d rather not kill you, really, but whatever information you have...and you have to have something, there’s no way he’d be chasing you _personally_ if you didn’t have something he wanted...he’s not getting that. I don’t even care what it is,” he sniffed.  
  
“If you know anything about Hesseline, Riddle, it’s that he’s vindictive and volatile. And I did blast his stomach open. You act like there’s a great conspiracy here when really he’s just angry.”  
  
“I wasn’t referring to Hesseline, though he’s not getting you either.”  
  
“Grindlewald is protective of his closest, including him.” Th comment was so asinine, shockingly, even as she went rigid in absolute horror. She wasn’t just a little toy to use and break to pass the time--she was, apparently, something he’d fight for. A jealous child refusing to give up his toy to a fellow playground bully. But it would send fire and death across all of Britain, and further than that, were Grindelwald to deign to play Riddle’s little games.  
  
Merlin, the thought of running had been so childish. It’d long gone past the point that she could hide from. A quiet fury rose in her, even as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.  
  
“Why are you so insistent about this? I hold nothing of interest _to you!_ This is not your business to know, Riddle, and the fact that you’d mind rape me to get the information makes you as much a lowlife as Hesseline or Grindlewald.”  
  
He gave the barest flinch at her accusation. It was small, but she caught it, and she latched on.  
  
“Oh? Don’t like that, _Tom?_ Does it help you sleep at night, thinking you’re a good Dark Lord who helps out the poor, oppressed halfbloods and Muggleborns? Pathetic. You are just as bad as any of them, and use all the same methods. Your doctrine makes no difference. And yes, I’m going to call it that. Because it’s what you just did. An invasion, of body or mind, forced on me without my consent. You may hate the word, but that’s what it is. Didn’t really think about that, did you?” she hissed.  
  
He looked like, for one moment, he genuinely had no idea how to respond. No snarky comeback. No cold, calculated, terrifying murmur of threats, of games, of monsters under the bed. His eyes slipped sideways, and his skin took on a slightly waxen tone. She savored that one moment, even in her pain, rolling in about in her head like someone would taste the sweetest candy.  
  
“Yes, Hesseline is after me,” she whispered. “And he wants to continue the game we had. Wants to finish the job. I wonder, who does he remind me of? Someone I met recently.”  
  
Riddle’s face went entirely bloodless, at this, even as his eyes narrowed, but he gave no snarl of outrage. Nothing. He seemed, for this one, wonderful moment, entirely shaken.  
  
“You heard him. He gave false comfort, acting like it’d be over soon, that by his 'tender mercies', I’d be spared by death. It’s a game, with rules beyond what I could stop. And just like with you, I was _forced to play._ I gave him satisfaction, just as that insane grin you had plastered over your face when we fought suggested that you gain satisfaction from our game as well, and, in exchange, mercy. Though not really. Only in the eyes of the horrible sadists involved. Want to see the rest of it?” she asked coldly. “I’m sure you’d find it eerily similar to yourself. Even the eyes are the same--cold, dead, like fish--”  
  
“Stop.”  
  
“ _No one ever gave me the choice for it to stop!_ ” she screamed, furious. “And what makes you think for even one second, Riddle, that I’ll give you that choice? Or him? Or Grindlewald? Not when you never, _not once_ offered the barest chance for me to turn down your one-sided games.” Her face went thoughtful, a false face. “Grindlewald did it too. All of you are so empty that playing with people’s lives and heads and bodies are the only enjoyments you get, aren’t they? You can’t feel anything else.”  
  
Riddle lifted from the floor, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m not going to listen to this,” he said simply, dusting himself off and moving for the edge of the bookshelves.  
  
“Must be nice to be able to run away from your problems. Will it be so easy, when Grindlewald comes?”  
  
He didn’t say a word in his own defense, merely kept walking. Not having the energy to curse him, and not wanting a repeat of “round one,” regardless. She watched him leave and when he was out of sight and the trail of his magic disappeared, she collapsed back onto the floor. She barely had time to check to make sure the muffling wards were still up before she descended into sobs, barely able to breathe past the gasping, choking tears. Even as she cried, anger burned within her and only grew--white hot anger, the kind that made the Unforgivables all too easy. And she stoked it with the fury only the unavenged could have.  
  
Reaching into her pocket, she ran a thumb over the stopper of the little vial there, a small smile playing on her lips even as she tasted the salty liquid of her own tears. No, Riddle wasn’t just going to get away with this. Not if she had anything to say about it.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Here is chapter five! Due to the dark nature of this chapter, we're going to list the specific trigger warnings possible for this chapter: abuse, torture, mentions of rape, use of knives as weapons, and being tied up/restrained.

* * *

  
  
There weren’t actually that many blood spells that weren’t deadly. There were even less that didn’t drive the victim into insanity, or at least maim them. But Hermione had heard of a few, and she’d read them all in a book her father had collected when she’d been younger. He’d quickly passed it on, selling it as it didn’t apply to his research--but not before she’d read it a few times.  
  
There were spells for love. There were spells for death, wasting, and illness. Even more, there were spells for control of many kinds. But what she wanted was something simple: something to make him hurt. And she knew just what spell she would do and, as she was pleased to find out, Slughorn had all the ingredients for the potion in his stores, which she easily nicked. She doubted Slughorn would make the connection, even if he noticed his missing ingredients. The blood was the binding agent, after all, and blood magic in general was quite rare. Then again, there was most likely a good reason that he was the Head of Slytherin house, though he hid it well if there were anything to be hidden.  
  
Just three drops from an eyedropper, one after the other with a spare second in between after five hour’s brewing, and it would be ready. The contents of the tiny little cauldron rippled and went black as she stirred it lightly, a smirk playing over her lips. However, she didn’t immediately want to add the blood. No, she wanted to be in a place where suspicion of her would make the least sense of all. So she needed to be in his presence and the simplest way to do that was for it to be at dinner. It didn’t take much to magically hang the dropper above her cauldron and, with barely a whisper, as long as she was within a few miles, it’d drop the blood in with the smallest command from her.  
  
It was a potion, but not one that had to be put into his goblet. No, this potion, because it would be linked by his blood, the strongest magical substance of the body, it would be as if she’d poisoned him directly.  
  
If this didn’t get Riddle to leave her alone, then nothing would.  
  
She went to dinner as usual, and nothing was out of place. Riddle was seated across from Slughorn, and Belby looked groggy, as if he hadn’t been up long despite the late afternoon hour. And so she seated herself with her typical bit of nerves, quietly and without comment as she picked up the plate before her and began serving herself, her eyes momentarily flicking up to Riddle’s. He looked away first, unusually silent without his typical chatter with Slughorn. No one noticed the brief eye contact.  
  
“Are you quite alright, m’boy? You’ve been awfully quiet this evening.”  
  
“I’m fine, just a bit under the weather,” he said quietly, ignoring Slughorn’s clear concern as he took a bite of his food.  
  
Hermione would have cocked an eyebrow if she were capable. But instead she calmly worked through her dinner, lost in thought. She needed to do it sooner rather than later, in case he was in fact ill as he claimed and intended to leave early.  
  
She’d also planned for him to be affected in the Great Hall and risk the suspicion, rather than have him pass out in his dorm and no one know where he was for the next twelve hours. Even as confident as she was in her potion brewing, she didn’t want him dead. Would him being ill, if he were, affect the spell? As the time came closer and closer she felt anxiety and guilt rise up the back of her throat even as she tried to push them away. _I haven’t even done it yet, I’m not backing out now_ , she thought, _we’ve come too far for that_. Swallowing her nerves, she raised her goblet, and whispered, non audibly, just before she drank.  
  
And, should it work, it would be now. She didn’t turn, but just watched from the corner of her eye for Riddle’s reaction.  
  
Just as he raised his fork to his lips, it dropped from his fingers. He clamped a hand over his mouth, fingernails digging into the table’s surface as he leaned forward in his seat, visibly shaking.  
  
“M’boy, what’s the matter?” asked Slughorn, alarmed at Tom’s sudden reaction. His question immediately drew other teachers to turn their gazes towards him. Hermione followed suit, wanting to watch. She refused to flinch in what she’d done. He deserved every second of it, after what he’d done.  
  
“Tom?” Dumbledore asked questioningly, rising slightly from his seat as the boy began to shake as if struck by a seizure. Riddle fell face-first into his plate, knocking over both their goblets. With alarm, every teacher was up and moving towards him.  
  
Dumbledore vaulted over the table with a spryness beyond his age, lifting the younger Dark Lord from his seat and laying him flat on the floor, immediately casting a number of diagnostic spells. Hermione moved out of the way, ashen, and her reaction was not faked. “Tom, Tom--” Dumbledore lightly patted his face, trying to get some sort of response from him. Hazily, Riddle met his gaze, before another shudder ripped through him.  
  
It was one thing to imagine and plan this out. It was completely another to watch him go in and out like that, his body shaking with pain beyond his control.  
  
She felt it immediately when his barriers dropped and the hold on his magic fell with them. Goosebumps rose along her arms and she tried not to flinch at the chaotic state of his magic rippling over her at her close proximity, writhing in reflection of the agony Riddle was surely experiencing. Beyond that, several spells that he’d had about him cancelled suddenly in quick succession. She could sense his magic roiling and retracting inward in a desperate attempt to combat whatever it was that was harming him, but it did no good.  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “Madraig, Saint Mungo’s. Now.”  
  
The young man jumped to attention and nodded, running out even as the nurse came up to kneel next to Dumbledore. “We need to get him out of here, Albus.”  
  
“Of course, yes,” Dumbledore said distractedly, slipping his arms beneath Tom and bodily lifting him, like a child. And really for once, in that one moment, Riddle really did seem to be very much a child; just a boy, in pain. The fact that Dumbledore still had the physical strength to lift him and had been distracted to the point of not using magic, spoke a lot for how he felt.  
  
It was only then that the screams started.  
  
They ripped through his throat as if they were clawing their way out, the agony clearly rising within him as they echoed up to the enchanted ceiling of Hogwarts. She was shaking now, and she saw that she wasn’t the only one upset by what was happening. Slughorn was white, and had bonelessly sat back down in his chair. His haunted gaze followed Dumbledore and Riddle. Clearly, he recognized it as Dark magic. Deep, Dark magic. The other teachers were upset, but none of them looked remotely as horrified as Slughorn.  
  
Dumbledore stumbled as he walked hurriedly from the hall, nearly dropping Riddle when he convulsed again, but caught him back up and with cold, vicious resolve she’d never seen on his normally cheerful face, carried Riddle from the hall. He was thunderous, and for one moment she could see every bit the powerful wizard that he was rather than a crotchety middle-aged wizard leaning toward senility at an early age. Quite the unassuming front indeed, now that she saw it when it was dropped, and she found herself glad that she’d never trusted him the smallest iota.  
  
Even as the doors closed, she still heard Riddle’s next sobbing scream from down the hall, muffled but carrying back to them. No one was seated, glancing back and forth between themselves anxiously. Hermione found herself sick at seeing the results of what she had done, and it had only just started. Riddle had twelve more hours to go, and there was no way to reverse it. And with each passing hour, until the sixth, it would get worse.  
  
Slughorn raised a hand to his lips. “Good heavens,” he whispered, staring after them as the door swung shut. “Good heavens, Tom...”  
  
She saw that Belby had slowly seated himself once again, completely unconcerned with the dinner before him. “That was dark magic,” he said, staring after where Riddle had disappeared. “Very dark.” It hadn’t been said to anyone in particular, but all had heard, and the whispers of anxiety turned into genuine fear. Slughorn didn’t look surprised, and neither did the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Merrythought.  
  
“What could have happened?” asked the Ancient Runes teacher, looking over to Professor Merrythought with anxiety. Others turned to her as well.  
  
“...I don’t know,” she murmured, slowly sinking into her seat. “It could have been a nightmare curse, but he was in obvious physical pain. This is different. Perhaps combined spells. Then again, when you get to dark magic of that strength, people react differently,” she said, obviously trying to be calm and clinical, but her hand shook as she raised her cup of tea to her lips. “It all depends on intent. And how deep your intent is, beyond the strength of the spell itself, whatever it may have been. And someone wanted him to hurt badly, for whatever reason.” She sighed. “I haven’t met many witches or wizards who would have the capability to cast one so brutal.”  
  
She hadn’t actually thought past the occurrence of the curse, past what it would do and how much it would make him hurt. Sitting among them now and listening as they speculated about what could have happened, she’d never felt so anxious. This was a different sort of anxiety than that found on the battlefield. And this was a different sort of guilt than she’d felt when the people who’d been travelling with her had died because of Grindelwald’s pursuit of her. No, she had purposefully caused someone else pain for nothing short of pure revenge, and it made her feel dirty in a way she knew wouldn’t wash off.  
  
“Are they going to take him to Saint Mungo’s?” she asked, her voice small.  
  
“Well of course m’dear,” Slughorn said fretfully, “Of course. They’ll bring in specialists, find what’s causing it and see if anything can be done to find the culprit.”  
  
She didn’t think they would. The spell she’d done had been written in a private copy of a book that had been in a family library for centuries, hidden in a niche behind a number of other books for untold years. Besides, if the well-seasoned Defense Against the Dark Arts professor guessed it was a combined nightmare curse, a professor who for all her soft-spokenness had obviously seen a good deal of battle in her lifetime, to judge by the scars upon her face and hands, then she doubted anyone would know, would understand.  
  
Professor Haberdynn left shortly after, and they all seated about the table. An elf eventually appeared and asked Dippet if they were finished and would like them to remove the food. Hardly anyone had eaten anything after Riddle’s exit. Hermione certainly hadn’t touched the plate before her.  
  
“Yes I believe so, though a cup of calming tea may not be unwanted,” Dippet said, obviously shaken himself. The elf bowed and disappeared, and moments later teacups and other such bits of crockery replaced the food before them. Slughorn, not bothering with hiding it, pulled out his personal little flask of brandy and poured a good amount into his tea. He stirred it loudly it before gulping it down. The Ancient Runes Professor gave him a sour look when he offered his flask to the other professors, but said nothing. Professor Merrythought, however, plucked the flask from Slughorn’s hand and drank it straight.  
  
“Good gracious I’ve never seen such things in these halls,” she said, “I thought that such dark things had long since been put behind me. A nice, pleasant retirement, teaching about the old days,” the woman, who outstripped Dippet and even Ms. Vance in her age, murmured darkly.  
  
Hermione couldn’t blame them, but she couldn’t afford to lose it. She had to get back to that old classroom and banish the potion, and then melt the cauldron and banish it away as well.  
  
“Though, considering that Myrtle was taken at the beginning of the school year,” said the woman, handing Slughorn back his flask, “perhaps darker things are encroaching on Hogwarts. These are dark times, after all, very dark, across the border. I’ve always wondered,” she said more to herself than the others, “If I’d live to see them cross to our side.”  
  
Hermione didn’t miss how Slughorn’s gaze turned towards her, if only briefly, at the mention of Grindelwald. She wondered if anyone else had noticed though, really, it didn’t take much to figure out where she’d run from.  
  
Belby shuddered. “I’d rather not think about it.”  
  
“Poor Myrtle,” the divinations professor murmured, “she was such a silly, petulant child, but no-one deserves to die in such a way. Darker times indeed.”  
  
The Muggle Studies professor crossed herself, clasping her hands together and leaning forward over the table, eyes haunted.  
  
Professor Haberdynn’s reentry broke them from their collective reverie nearly an hour later. Slughorn shot up from his seat as the tall, wiry herbology teacher made his way up to the head table. “They’re not moving him to Mungo’s, too dangerous to his condition to transport. There are five specialists up in the infirmary looking after him but its seems there’s nothing they can do. Dumbledore sent me down to let in two aurors at the gate.”  
  
She’d expected that, but it’d been a risk she’d been prepared to take rather than just let him experience this in the privacy of his dorm room.  
  
“One of them would like to speak with Miss Granger, actually,” Haberdynn added, looking to her. They all looked to her, clearly shocked. All of their expressions said that they didn’t believe she could have done it. “Says it’s unrelated, but still important. And, considering her status as a refugee, I guess they worry,” Haberdynn said, as if surprised that they’d even consider such a thing, and really who would with quiet, mousy little Hermione, who barely spoke to anyone. “Says you’ll know him by name,” he finished, looking to her.  
  
Even with that, Hermione still felt full of nerves. “Who?”  
  
“Padraic Moody. Now hurry child, doesn’t do to keep the aurors waiting.”  
  
Recognition lit up her face. Ah, she did know that name. He was the Auror who had been put in charge of questioning her after she’d arrived in Britain, literally just moments after she’d changed into the first St. Mungo’s gown of many during her very long stay. He’d also been one of the main people guarding her when she’d first arrived at the hospital, before they set up a secure place to keep her during her time there.  
  
As calmly as she could manage, she rose from her chair, even as it ticked in the back of her mind that the remnants of the potion were still there in that abandoned classroom on the fifth floor. Clearly no one had been there in ages, as the dust had been thick on the floor, but the fact that it was out in the open left her anxious.

* * *

  
  
Following Haberdynn up to the infirmary, she was greeted by Moody outside the entrance. Her professor’s presence needed elsewhere, he nodded politely and left.  
  
“So very good to see you again, Granger, though I’d rather under less trying circumstances,” Padraic said with a lopsided grin he’d been awarded after a rather nasty melting curse had hit him just along his jaw and splintered upwards, ruining the muscles beneath the skin wherever it had touched.  
  
“You typically don’t meet Aurors under good circumstances,” she said, glancing towards the infirmary doors.  
  
“Yes, well, there is always that,” he agreed, following her gaze. “Worried, are ye?”  
  
“He was sitting right there, and...I never want to see it again,” she said.  
  
Padraic looked like he’d  pat her on the shoulder if he could but he knew better, and merely offered her a small smile. She realized in that moment that something had to be broken in you, when you could lie to the Aurors with no problem. “Nothin’ to do but wait it out really at this point. The doctors can’t figure out what the trouble is, ‘cept that it’s some of the darkest magic they’ve seen in years. Crazy, things like this happening in a school,” he murmured darkly, “but not unexpected really. Which is exactly what I’m here to talk to you about.”  
  
“You think it’s related to Grindelwald?” she asked, inferring immediately what he meant. There was a horrible irony in the world if Grindelwald was being blamed for her crimes. That they were dark enough to be associated with him, really, that was frightening in itself. And Moody knew what Grindelwald was like, he’d studied extensively, kept up with every bit of information he could get his hands on from across the borders. He’d never said that he was in charge of gaining information and reporting about Grindelwald to the Head Auror and, most likely, the Minister. But she’d guessed, from the vague things he’d said and spoken about when she’d been able to hesitantly respond to his speech.  
  
Padraic shifted slightly, leaning on his cane a bit heavier than usual, as if a great weight had descended upon his back. “Can’t say no to that, Granger,” he gruffed. “I considered it...wasn’t going to tell you earlier on ‘cause ‘o your health, but it’s important that you be aware. There’s been killings, here in Britain, over the past few months.”  
  
“More than just the girl from Hogsmeade?” That was horrible, if it was more than just that. If there were open killings...than there were many more going on in the shadows.  
  
Moody’s eyebrows shot up at this.  
  
“The rumor mill of Hogwarts,” she explained.  
  
“Silly gossips, all of ‘em. But she looked like you, Granger, and worse than that, there’s been others. Just the other day a member of the Wizengamot died under...unusual circumstances, and there’ve been other incidents...body found down on Knockturn, though that’s not all that unusual for that place, but it was someone known for voicing opposition and trying to get out more articles on happenings across the waters in the papers. He’s moving, Granger, quietly but he’s moving. And that boy,” he said, glancing back toward the infirmary, “That boy’s known for speaking out against Grindelwald on a regular basis. The students rally around him, and they talk, to their parents. And you know, if that much has been noticed, then there’s probably more in his acts of resistance than we’re aware of.”  
  
Oh, they didn’t even know his plans, but she was almost completely certain that none of his plans would leak out. Riddle seemed to be quite the slick liar.  
  
“Dumbledore’s whispering about blood magic. Nasty, nasty stuff that is, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Only question is how they got it from him.”  
  
Oh, Merlin. Were all Dark Lords a thorn in her side? How had Dumbledore even known? The only way he could possibly have known is if he’d seen such things before--ah. That would be it, then. He’d seen blood magic used, previously. Perhaps even used it himself.  
  
“Wouldn’t be hard, really, just get a student from one of those families to prick his hand and there you have it,” continued Moody, not noticing her speculation. “But the doctors haven’t seen anything like it and really I don’t know anything about that sort of magic myself, not to that extent. The specialists think it’s some modified nightmare curse, so we can’t say for sure. But Granger, you ought to watch yourself, what with Grindelwald’s people working close enough to hit in the school, and just outside its borders. You can bet more than anything they know you’re here.”  
  
“I don’t doubt they do,” she said quietly. She’d never told the Aurors why she was running, much less why they were continuing to chase after her, but they had, eventually, stopped asking her the reason and focused on the fact that Grindelwald was after her, and that anything he wanted couldn’t be good for them.  
  
He laid a hand on her shoulder, carefully, and squeezed it lightly, giving her a small smile. “My boy’s here in school right with ye’, so you need anything from me you just let him know, or send me an owl yerself. Alastor, his name is, just a first year but he’s quick as a whip as it is.”  
  
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” she said, giving the older man a weak smile. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, if he isn’t terrified of my new status as a Slytherin.” It was a weak joke. Even with only a few people here and even less to talk to, she’d picked up on exactly what sort of prejudices and stereotypes people had about her house.  
  
Moody’s eyebrows quirked up at that a bit, and he grinned. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Granger.”  
  
“And what would that be?”  
  
“I almost got sorted Slytherin myself,” he whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Me ‘da would have skinned me, though, so I went Gryffindor. But don’t you worry ‘bout Alastor, he knows better.”  
  
“Thank you for everything,” she said, and she meant it. Out of all the people she’d met, he’d been one of the few truly concerned.  
  
“You don’t need to thank me for nothin’,” he said gruffly, patting her shoulder. “Now off with you, best not be hangin’ about here while the doctors work.”  
  
She nodded and, with a wave, began walking off. The moment she was far enough away not to be heard, she broke into a run to the staircase. She could have laughed. Moody thought it was Grindelwald. Not that the Ministry would say anything of the sort, or allow for that conclusion to be put down on paper, but they thought it was Grindelwald. That would, most likely, be the conclusion drawn by everyone else too, with the memory of that girl hanging over Hogwarts like a storm cloud. She hadn’t intended it that way, but it could only work in her favor, that the suspicion was being thrown off her.  
  
The first thing she did was return to that abandoned classroom and banish the contents of the cauldron. They weren’t necessary at this point, the spell was already cast. Next, she melted down the cauldron itself, an old school one she’d found in a back store-room that wouldn’t be missed. Best not to use her own kit, especially if it could be noticed that things were missing from it should they manage to get on her trail.  
  
 _Dumbledore thought it was blood magic._  
  
There was no question that this was not a thought. He knew. She didn’t know how, but he clearly did, and it didn’t bode well for her. Did he suspect her? Or did he assume it was someone else? Really, she didn’t know how many enemies Riddle had. She knew that he wouldn’t fall for the possibility of it being Grindelwald. People who didn’t know Grindelwald and were afraid liked to pin every mysterious or horrible crime to him, but Riddle would know it was her. It was too close, too close not to be seen as retaliation.  
  
She returned to her room, intending to sleep, but only found herself curled up in her nightgown, staring at the wall as she stroked Crookshanks’ fur. Crookshanks seemed a bit surly at her, and had his back to her, swishing his tail in what she could have sworn was irritated disapproval.  
  
Hermione had practiced Dark Magic before. It was nothing new to her, really. The rest of Europe wasn’t as afraid of Dark magic as Britain. Though it was a more tactical magic than Light, there were some things that even she felt a bit squeamish about doing. And now, after the anger had faded some amount, she could only reflect on the fact that she had done something to Riddle that she would only have wished upon such as Hesseline or Grindelwald. Without thinking. Without plan. She’d simply allowed her anger to override all sense and consideration, and used it. And that was when Dark magic became dangerous, really, that was when it affected those who practiced it.  
  
And that wasn’t like her. She was always logical and thoughtful and, up until this point, she’d thought that she’d still been a good person. She wasn’t so sure, now. Riddle had been horrible and deserved retribution, but he was still only a boy. He’d never seen the things she’d seen, or witnessed the horrors she had, and probably hadn’t done nearly as much dark of magic for all he was a Dark Lord, as she had.  
  
Was it any better of her to reflect that same violence? She’d only moved to defend herself and others before, except with the intent of getting back Hesseline and Grindlewald.  
  
And she’d only been defending herself here, as well.  
  
Hadn’t she?  
  
She didn’t know. The fact that she was in this situation at all, though, wondering at the implications of her use of blood magic and whether it’d been “fair” or not probably spoke far more about her than it did Riddle. She wondered, not for the first time, what kind of person she was becoming and if that person was worthwhile. With this action looming over her, she couldn’t dismiss the question.  
  
Frustrated with herself, she got out of bed, tossing on her shoes and one of her cloaks over her nightgown. Crookshanks meowed at her questioningly.  
  
“Just a little stroll, Crookshanks,” she said gently, petting him one last time. He butted against her leg and followed her out the door as she disillusioned herself. Just a few days, and her feet already seemed to lead her into familiar haunts.  
  
She should have known really, where her feet would lead her, even as she wandered higher and higher through the castle to the Infirmary.  
  
Hermione went on steadily and with false confidence as she made her way down the hall, but stopped short as she felt it. She could sense Riddle’s magic, well down the hall from the infirmary. It wasn’t really cognizant, judging by its rather chaotic patterns of movement across her skin as she drew closer. Still, his magic was a monstrous, coiling thing that felt like walking into a thick miasma. She shuddered at the feel of it upon her skin, spread thin as it seemed to move with whatever air currents flowed through Hogwarts. Occasionally it would condense, as if jolting and contracting about her, possibly reacting to whatever Riddle was feeling at the moment. Ignoring the discomfort that resulted from this, she slipped through the door into the Infirmary.  
  
A few candles were lit within. She quietly closing it behind her and crouched down at the sight of the nurse bending over a still-shaking form upon one of the cots. Their shadows were still visible through the pale white curtains, lit from the flickering light within and the yellowed flare of a diagnostic spell.  
  
The nurse hummed, sadly, tutting. “Still no change.”  
  
There was a yell, muffled by spells, but apparently Riddle had been doing it enough that his voice was essentially gone, and it came out as little more than a hoarse, rasping sob. There was a Healer with her, she realized, and she wondered how she was going to get out again.  
  
“I don’t know that there’s anything else we can do for him. Nothing seems to numb the pain. If this is the work of a night terrors curse, then it’s certainly been modified beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Of course nothing would numb the pain. It was a potion made with ingredients to take the worst of the mind but, like a transfiguration potion, mixed in with the blood, causing pain that nothing could soothe.  
  
“I think you should rest, Miranda, really you’ve been up all night and there’s little else we can do.”  
  
“I think I’ll stay. It’s best someone be here, I’d think, in case anything changes,” the school nurse murmured.  
  
“I’ll be right in the other room, just call if you need me,” the doctor intoned, reaching out and patting the nurse’s hand before he slipped from behind the curtain and left. He strode into another room that, most likely, was for longer term patients who weren’t ill enough to be sent away to St. Mungo’s. That was a boon, and even as she watched the school nurse, she felt the healer’s magic go hazy--a clear sign of sleep (or Confundus, but that clearly wasn’t the case). Just to be safe, she snuck past, her feet muffled and form disillusioned still, and cast an extra somnium charm, sending his sleep just a bit deeper.  
  
After a few more minutes, the school nurse sighed and went over to her desk, clearly tired and worried. It didn’t take much effort to send not a sleeping charm, but an exhaustion jinx. The woman’s eyes immediately drooped, and she lay her head on the desk, clearly snoring away within minutes. Hermione moved over to Riddle, to the side the healers had been watching him, not disturbing the other curtain hiding him from the entranceway.  
  
Riddle was obviously still awake, though unaware when she finally slipped past the curtain to see him. Even as he writhed weakly, eyes wide, he clearly wasn’t aware of his surroundings. His gray-blue eyes were focused on something no one else could see, and he look panicked. She took the nearby seat.  
  
She had caused this, and she would bear witness.     
  
His teeth grit together, hands digging into the bed-sheets. He’d been restrained to prevent him from flailing and hurting himself, clearly, but still his fingernails dug painfully into the palms of his hands, dotting the sheets with blood, and he’d torn his nails to the quick.  
  
She wondered what he was dreaming about. What did he see? The book hadn’t said what kind of nightmares the victim would receive.  
  
Listening, and watching as carefully as she was, she still only just barely caught the form of words within his weakened, whispered screams.  
  
“No, there’s nothing wrong with me, you don’t understand I don’t know why she ended up going down the stairs don’t hit me again please--” and he jolted painfully against his restraints, as if someone had struck him. A sob tore from his damaged throat, and he tried to curl in on himself, defending himself against the blows.  
  
She paled.  
  
“Please...please I didn’t do it it wasn’t me no--” he jolted again, back arching off the bed, eyes wide as a gasp escaped him.  
  
“I’m not the devil’s son, no, I didn’t do anything wrong. We fought and she hit me first but I didn’t push her I swear--” His last words came out as a broken plea, cutting off into a muffled scream of agony that couldn’t possibly have resulted from being beaten, no, this was something different, something continuous.  
  
He choked, and his raspy voice gasped out sobs. “Mrs. Cole, I’ll pray, I’ll do whatever I need to do, but I’m barely healed from last time please don’t send me back there,” he begged, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. “I’ll not have supper, you can lock me up in the attic in the dark with the spiders, anything!”  
  
Was this real? Memories? Or just nightmares created by his imagination? She didn’t know, until she saw something odd, that she hadn’t seen before. A scar rose up from under the collar of his shirt, the skin clearly having been painfully broken in the past.  
  
Oh Merlin, it was nightmares from his past.  
  
“ _We all have our scars, Granger_.” He’d barely said it days ago. She hadn’t realized how literally he had meant it.  
  
Why why why why had she thought this was a great idea? Looking at him writhing, sobbing, and begging, all she could think of was how completely and utterly worthless she was. She’d become someone who would use the worst of the dark arts to torture. Cruciatus might have been more merciful than this; at least it was shorter. He had six more hours left of this. Six.  
  
She realized that he was calming down, his shudders fading until they were barely noticeable, and his ragged breath slowed, even as he continued to sweat profusely, and his face was twisted in pain.  
  
A thin trickle of red dripped from his nose as he shivered beneath the thin covers of the hospital bed.  
  
She almost panicked, but then realized that the stains on his face were blood from where he’d had nosebleeds before. She checked his ears--nothing--and nothing seemed to be coming out of his eyes, so it wasn’t an aneurysm. Just horrible, horrible pain and stress, or the warning sign of an oncoming seizure. Neither were comforting.  
  
His eyes flickered open, just barely, hazily focusing on her as he seemed to sense her presence rather than really see, his gaze sliding away tiredly each time he actively tried to focus in this small moment of lucidity. She hadn’t expected it, and she stared in shock that she couldn’t hide.  
  
“I thought it was you,” he said, his voice cracking painfully before trailing into unnatural silence. “Don’t hide your magic well,” he continued as if he hadn’t stopped for several beats.  
  
That was not reassuring to hear in the slightest. How could he be completely incapacitated and still spook her?  
  
A shudder coursed through him, and his head tilted back as he gasped for air, fingers clenching the fabric of the bed sheets. “Why does everything hurt?” he asked, seeming confused and completely disoriented.  
  
“Because I cursed you,” she said, trying to remain calm. He needed to know that, and hear it from her. Before she’d thought so to say it so that he could know she really did it, that she could take pride in her successful revenge--now, it felt more like a confession of guilt. She really needed to get out of there. He couldn’t do anything, but she’d be so much calmer once he was out of the worst of his pain. She could work on not showing her guilt for the next six hours. Certainly this would be more productive than sleeping.  
  
His face scrunched up momentarily as he attempted to grasp  her words, before his eyes slid back to her--though barely focused, they shone an eerie, dulled red, like old blood. Whatever he’d done related to the Dark Arts had been deep. Not even Grindelwald had such inhuman eyes.  
  
He gave no response to her admittal save a small, agonized whimper that hung still in the air, even as he began to shake again where he lay. His eyes slid off of her, seeming to begin seeing something that wasn’t there again, before they closed again in pain, not even looking at her anymore upon opening. His brief moment of lucidity had passed. She wondered if, as the maker of this curse, it’d been her arrival that had given him that lucid moment.  
  
It didn’t matter, though. At around half past six in the morning, he’d fully come out of his nightmares and, not long after that, the pain would fade completely, though he’d be left sore. Rising from her chair, and she realized Crookshanks had been under the bed the whole time  
  
Crookshanks leaped onto the bed soundlessly, curling up against Riddle’s side and watching her.  
  
“Crookshanks!” she whispered, low, and he actually hissed at her. She drew back and, feeling suddenly very alone and very flawed as a human being, “Fine,” she said, voice quavering. “Stay there, if you like. You always liked him anyway. You can be his familiar instead.” Crookshanks gave a slightly unsure meow in response, but she’d already headed towards the door, and left the infirmary.  
  
She began wandering again, looking out over the castle grounds through the torchlights. She couldn’t go to sleep. She had to be there when Riddle woke up for real.

* * *

  
  
Everything hurt.  
  
Every nerve sang its agony as he slipped toward consciousness, not daring to open his eyes yet and accept that he was still alive even with this pain. He wasn’t sure for how much time passed after waking--it could have been minutes or it could have been hours--before he could open his eyes and think past the hurt.  
  
The next thing he noticed was that sense of old magic, humming a strange note that seemed to echo through everything. It was her, the new girl, Granger. If she was anywhere near him he always knew, no matter how much she hid. Her magic was unmistakable. Distantly he remembered she’d come to him in the night, that she’d told him she did this. Still, somehow, he couldn’t focus enough to care, in that moment. He knew he would later, though.  
  
Ever since she’d come to Hogwarts, she’d become all he could think about. Had it really only been about a week? It felt like it’d been forever, and as if she’d always been there, a vengeful and powerful Fury.  
  
It was so strange. Terrifying, really, in its own way, how his gaze slid to her and held even through his pain, eyes fever-bright as he took her in. She was holding back something, even as she watched him with such a cold expression. She didn’t have the sort of face that should be so cold. He’d known, after even just talking with her a bit, that she’d once been the sort of person who carried their heart on their sleeve.  
  
She’d been forged into something else, and was still hot from the flames and bruised from the beating that turned her into the incredible weapon she was now. Using the shattered remnants of who she’d once been to fight him back, she’d risen from the ashes like a phoenix, newly reborn, and had attacked him with everything she had the moment she perceived danger. And she’d taken it so very far.  
  
He’d never thought he’d be obnoxious enough to wax so poetically about a girl, but she was far too fascinating to ignore. And not really in that way. This wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t capable of that in any sense but imitation. This was a different sort of attraction, something that moved his whole being to the point where he simply could not leave her alone. She haunted his dreams and his absent waking moments. He wanted to know her personality, her secrets, her fears, and know why the most powerful people in Europe has their eyes so very locked on her--for so many different reasons, half of which he barely understood. He wanted to know why her magic resonated so differently from all the others, yet clashed violently with his own the moment they came into proximity even as his own attempted to pull her closer. He wanted to map out every scar on her body, see what she had once been, and how she’d become this vicious little creature.  
  
“Point for you,” he whispered weakly, and though the words came out as barely a grating rasp. He felt something move on the opposite side of the bed next to him, and he briefly saw the orange fur of Hermione’s Kneazle before it jumped off the bed and left.  
  
She obviously understood, judging by the absolutely horrified expression on her face, and completely ignored her pet. “This isn’t a game.”  
  
His lips curled into a smile that would have been absolutely gleeful if it weren’t for the pain of movement that tempered his entertainment. The game would continue, regardless of her protests. Even if she claimed it wasn’t a game, she still acknowledged that she was playing now and then. When she’d thrown those words at him, comparing him to the monsters that haunted her nightmares, he’d considered dropping it, even as he was tense with the desire to learn more because it was clear he’d barely even gotten the tip of the iceberg.  
  
He wouldn’t now. She’d made it far, far too interesting for him not to. And even more so, she’d upped the stakes. It was like everything she did was petrol that she threw into the fire. She simply could not resist fighting back if he pushed her. Did she even know she was doing it? Or was it done in complete innocence, a natural reaction? If it was natural, then they were complementary in the worst way possible.  
  
But his amusement didn’t last long as her head snapped around upon sensing something coming.  
  
The sound of a door opening and closing reminded him of just how heavily his head was pounding, even as he barely turned and watched her duck down, sliding right beneath the bed and out the opposite side, beneath the curtain, to hide under the bed next to his own.  
  
He was confused, out of focus as the overwhelming and distracting sense of her magic moved away and another aura of power came up. He remembered he didn’t like it, and then remembered it belonged to Dumbledore.  
  
“Hello, Tom. You seem a bit more awake,” he said, sitting down next to his bed. Tom closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them again.  
  
His first attempt at speech died on his lips, as no sound escaped them. The second, however, was more successful. “Go away,” he snarled, but it came out as little more than a weak hiss. Speaking made him realize his throat burned, and he desperately wanted water.  
  
A few pillows materialized behind his back, either that or the single one supporting his head had expanded, and as it pushed him up a bit further he felt the edge of a cup press to his lips. The sudden movement made him grimace in pain, and a gasp escaped. Oh God, he couldn’t ever remember being this hurt before.  
  
Dumbledore held a cup to his lips. He turned his head sharply, shrinking back against the pillow even as his body screamed at him for moving. He wanted the water so bad, but even half-dazed he didn’t trust the Transfiguration Professor. “No,” he protested, feeling the slightest bit of panic. He was weak, and no telling what could happen to him.  
  
“It’s for your own good, Tom.”  
  
“Not water. A potion. You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
A sigh came from off to his left, and the goblet was placed on a nearby side table. “It’s just water, Tom, should you want it. It’ll hurt to swallow though, I’m sure, considering everything.”  
  
“Considering what?” he asked tiredly, even as his throat protested painfully.  
  
“You were placed under a spell, one that caused you the worst sort of nightmares as well as physical pain.”  
  
He sniffed. He knew better than that and he knew Dumbledore was lying. He never was particularly fantastic at such things, not unless he was truly trying. Clearly the old man knew more.  
  
“Do you know who would do such a thing to you, Tom? Or why?”  
  
“I haven’t the faintest,” he lied immediately. Hell, it hurt to speak. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. He wouldn’t turn her over to Dumbledore, though he was sure that the professor was quite aware about the badly hidden guest in the infirmary, and the implications of why she would be there.  
  
“I’m sure we both know that is a lie, Tom,” Dumbledore said softly.  
  
“Go away,” he repeated, stressing each syllable with careful precision. He couldn’t think of a sharper insult, really, not with the way his head was pounding. It would have to do.  
  
“Tom, I believe blood magic was used against you. No one, under any circumstances, should be hit with such a spell. The perpetrator deserves the full punishment that would come with that.”  
  
Dumbledore was trying to play on his anger, even as he marveled. She’d used blood magic? He sluggishly tried to remember when she could have gotten his blood. Ah, yes, he’d been bleeding then in the hall when she had struck him after that rather disastrous question game. It had taken a good bit of effort to heal, too, as bringing such a thing to the Infirmary would have raised far too many questions. But even then...even then she’d been plotting, had taken what opportunity was presented to her even as dark as it had been. And she most certainly didn’t shy away from using dark magic to any extreme, to go so far as to use his blood.  
  
 _Blood magic_. He hadn’t even experimented with it yet, but he was aware that it was very difficult to use without incurring death. She was probably from a Light family, but she somehow had the ability to cast with such strong intent in both directions of the spectrum. He had to strongly repress a smile.  
  
Dumbledore frowned, and he realized he hadn’t repressed it enough to hide it from the other wizard.  
  
“Is there something you wish to tell me?” he asked.  
  
“Not at all,” Tom said flatly. As if he would tell him anything. He couldn’t think about it until after Dumbledore left. His emotions were all over his face, and he knew they would not match what Dumbledore would expect for the situation. So he concentrated on the fact that he was quite annoyed and wary of the wizard’s presence.  
  
“Tom, by hiding what you know, you’re aiding someone in using one of the most forbidden branches of the dark arts. Their sentence would be a one way ticket to Azkaban,” said Dumbledore sternly.  
  
“As if you can say anything about how terrible it is to practice,” he hissed. “Fuck off. It’s not your problem.” He would have never talked to him this way, in public or private, but he was too tired and in pain to care.  
  
He wouldn’t turn her in. Besides the fact that this game was between them and he wouldn’t have it end at this, the results of him doing such a thing were far too unpleasant to think about, oddly enough. She’d never reach Azkaban; Grindelwald undoubtedly had his own people in the Ministry and she’d be whisked away back to the German Dark Lord. No, she was his. She would stay his and he’d keep her close no matter what he had to do to make it so. There simply was no other option.  
  
He readjusted himself on the pillows, and realized that the pain had lessened quite a bit.  
  
Dumbledore seemed to recognize Tom’s determination and sighed, leaning back in the wooden chair next to the hospital bed Tom was, mercifully, no longer restrained in. He was now remembering other times, less lucid than his meeting with Hermione, when he’d been completely restrained as he desperately tried to move away from the sources of pain. And he’d known someone else was there, during that time, watching him for a short while before leaving.  
  
“You lost quite a few spells around yourself, once you lost consciousness,” said Dumbledore quietly.  
  
Tom felt the blood drain from his face. Desperately he grasped at his magic, only to find that he couldn’t hold onto it as the pain rose fresh, and he went ashen as the agony resurfaced in an entirely different form. He was defenseless. Entirely defenseless. He didn’t even have his switchblade on him, sitting uselessly in the pocket of his school robes, hanging over the end of his bed.  
  
“You were thrashing about quite a bit in your nightmares. We had to restrain you or you would have hurt yourself or kept falling off the bed, as you did quite a few times, though luckily you were able to be released a few hours ago. Though, before that happened, it became clear that you’re the owner of quite a few scars that I’ve never seen before on your person.”  
  
If there had been any small bit of color left in his face, it left him then. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the calm expression on Dumbledore’s face as he sat with his hands neatly clasped in his lap.  
  
“Has there been problems at the orphanage?” he asked, and his face radiated concern. It made him want to rend Dumbledore from limb and limb. How dare he act like he even gave a shit about him?  
  
“How dare you,” he said, his voice soft. “How dare you act like you care now of all times. You never did before, and I know you don’t now.”  
  
The older wizard recoiled as if he’d been burnt. He couldn’t even grin at the satisfaction of having shocked him into recoiling. He was too angry, and if he’d been able to at all, his magic would have been seething to attack.  
  
“What did you think Muggles would do,” he asked quietly, “seeing a child that could move things around without touching them, that could make animals do what he wanted, that could make fire dance in the air with no source? They thought I was the devil’s son.”  
  
“You never said a word,” he said softly.  
  
Tom stared openly at him, before a pained, grating laugh bubbled up from the back of his throat. Oh it hurt, but he couldn’t have swallowed it if he’d wanted to. “And, why, Dumbledore, would I go to anyone when the first magical person I met was so clearly horrified at me? Believing everything a Muggle woman said in all her terror at my abilities? I could hear you, out in the hall, you know. And really, coming in and casting a thief’s locator spell? You didn’t even extend the smallest modicum of trust. Why would I possibly tell you,” he hissed, “when you rejected me upon discovery?”  
  
He looked so shocked, the foolish old man.  
  
“You adopted me. Yes, I got the little notice from the ministry. And you fucking left me there,” he snarled. “For six more years. And I can tell you exactly why you did it,” he said, having to stop and painfully cough, and there was blood on his hand afterwards, but he ignored it even as Dumbledore’s eyes focused on the red spattering his hand  in quiet horror. “You were afraid,” he said, his voice soft, sinuous. “You were afraid because you didn’t see a child, you saw a young Dark Lord.” He felt spooked, saying it at all. He’d only ever said this to Granger, and she’d called him out on it first. “You didn’t want anyone else adopting me and using my influence, as you were sure they would do. There’s no other reason why you’d have left me there otherwise. Just didn’t want to have to bother taking care of me yourself, right?” he laughed again, but it hurt in more ways than just the bit of blood he could taste inside his mouth.  
  
His voice was giving out fast, and he internally swore. You’d think, after screaming for however long he’d been out, that it would have given up the ghost already. However when he actually was constructively using it, then it decided to fail. Just perfect. He raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore’s for the first time since waking.     
  
The old man’s face was drawn, and even has he looked at Tom, there was no sign of Legilimency. “What? Too shocked to say anything?” he sniffed. “Typical.”  
  
“A bit, yes,” he admitted. “Some of those things I did purposefully. Not all of them, though, and I am correctly at fault.”  
  
“Too late for your guilt now, old man,” he said coldly. “I’m seventeen in about forty-two hours, and when I step out of this castle it won’t be as your ward.”  
  
“I don’t imagine so,” said Dumbledore, and they both glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps.  
  
It was the nurse, and she gave Dumbledore a scathing look that would make most cower in fear. “You’ve had long enough with my patient, Professor. He needs his potions and to be seen by the Mungo’s healers. Off with you. If need be, come back later,” she said sternly, making a shooing gesture. Dumbledore gave him one last look as he stood up and left the Infirmary.  
  
Tom closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back onto the pillow, exhaustion overtaking him though he only half-dozed. He didn’t really pay attention as the doctors flitted about him, for once too tired to care as they gave him a number of different potions. He was certain there was a calming draught in there, not that he’d have wanted it. His nerves were on fire and his head hurt, but not from the blood magic. Eventually the doctors left, and he was given time to rest. But even though he closed his eyes, he did not sleep. Granger was still under the second bed. He had forgotten in his anger.  
  
“Granger, I know you’re there,” he said weakly. He couldn’t wait until he was released and he could go to his own bed, and he’d only just woken up. God, he’d be here all day, probably.  
  
She moved out from under the bed and moved to the chair, disillusioning herself after she sat down. “Couldn’t do much. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be here until the infirmary opened at eight.”  
  
Tom didn’t bother opening his eyes. They were too heavy. “Hear enough?” he asked bitterly, even as she raised the muffling wards.  
  
“I didn’t purposefully dig for your information.” The accusation was clear in her voice.  
  
“Can’t you just go away?” he whispered.  
  
She didn’t respond, but he heard her get up and leave the Infirmary.  
  
He flickered in and out of consciousness and alertness over the next several hours. Distantly he remembered voices, probably of the nurse and the two doctors from Mungo’s, who eventually left. He wasn’t in pain anymore, except for his throat, and that was being healed by one of those potions he’d been given. But he was beyond exhaustion, and he allowed sleep to come, if only for a little while. It didn’t matter really, for a moment, that there weren’t wards on the room, or that anyone could come in. Maybe that was the calming draught, really, or maybe he just didn’t care. But upon his third time waking, Dumbledore had returned, and the room was dark save for a few spare candles.  
  
“When she said you could come back later, I’d hoped you would take the hint and not actually do so,” he said. He hadn’t spoken since the potion had been given, but thankfully it seemed his throat was pretty much healed, and his voice was fairly close to normal again.  
  
“I’m afraid not, Tom, there are things to be discussed.”  
  
He snorted. “Well you can chat with yourself for all you like.” Turning away, he closed his eyes. He would have cursed himself for such flippant behavior in the fellow Dark Wizard’s presence later, but as it was in that moment he wasn’t really focused enough to care.  
  
“It seems our hidden guest is not here this time,” said Dumbledore.  
  
His face scrunched in annoyance, but he said nothing.  
  
“I know you’ve been putting on an act for Horace and the other teachers about your intentions regarding her. Interesting, though, that despite the fact that barely a week ago I found her very upset on the staircase after you’d gone after her, and you end up in the hospital. It makes an old man wonder.”  
  
“Well you can wonder all you want, I’m not telling you a bloody thing.” He could have slapped himself. He sounded so very petulant. Fucking calming draught. Just another item on his list of things to seek vengeance about when he got ahold of Granger. He’d plan more once he was off these potions. He had already the seed of an idea, however.  
  
“That’s quite unfortunate, Tom.”  
  
“For you,” he said acerbically.  
  
Dumbledore sighed a bit, and Tom heard the sound of the old, wooden chair creak a bit. “The Aurors will most likely be coming by tomorrow, to ask about why you could possibly have been attacked.”  
  
“I’m sure,” he said coldly. “And of course poor, injured Tom Riddle will tell them he has no idea what happened or who caused it. What a wonderful birthday present.”  
  
Merlin, couldn’t they give him a potion to shut him up? His anger at himself and at Granger grew, and he frowned slightly. Had someone given him something? Typically he was rarely so loose-tongued as this...then again, he had only ever gone to the Infirmary for the most minor of injuries in class, which rarely ever happened. It had to be the calming draught, coupled with this horrendous exhaustion. He couldn’t blame it on anything else, when he couldn’t even hold up his own spells enough to check, enough to hide.  
  
“It wouldn’t surprise me, if that’s what you tell them. Though I think they’ll draw their own conclusions about the cause behind this, and you’ll see it rather quickly.”  
  
“Most likely,” he said absently. He doubted they’d suspect Granger, as she seemed like the type of person that would make sure all of the evidence had been destroyed. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. He just wanted to sleep some more, but he doubted Dumbledore would allow for that.  
  
Well, he’d at least try. He turned away from the deputy headmaster and closed his eyes. Even if he couldn’t relax enough to sleep, this was a far better turn of events than the two of them staring each other down. Especially considering what he knew of Dumbledore and the wicked intelligence behind those twinkling eyes, and the way they could seep into the darkest corners of his mind. Belatedly, it occurred to him that his barriers, too, had crumbled somewhat in the wake of this attack on his person. His eyes snapped open, far more awake than he’d been before. Oh, Granger was going to _pay_. He was at risk, and all of his secrets were as well. And everyone involved in those secrets, living or dead. The thought made him reach his finger to make sure the ring was still there. Thankfully, it was.  
  
“My boy, I cannot help you if you do not allow me,” Dumbledore said calmly.  
  
“Help is not what you’re offering, Professor,” he stated.  
  
“My boy--”  
  
“I am not your boy,” he hissed. “Legalities or no.”  
  
Dumbledore gave him a withering look. “You may have only hours left under my guardianship, Tom, but I am still the holder of that position.”  
  
“And since when have you ever made good on that claim?” he asked coldly.  
  
“I am making good on it now,” Dumbledore said firmly.  
  
“Well you’re a bit fucking late,” he growled. “I want none of your paltry help.”  
  
“I have failed you,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Deeply. And it will not happen again.”  
  
“Oh no, you will continue to do so. Nothing has changed, except you know a bit more of the details of what went on in the place you cast me back to. The real intentions and thoughts behind all of this are still the same. Now, can I rest in peace? Even the orphanage matron would let me sleep if I’d just faced a life-threatening ordeal, and I assure you that there’s not much good that can be said about her in the slightest.”  
  
“Perhaps to you, nothing has changed,” Dumbledore agreed, inclining his head slightly. “But I am far more aware than you give me credit for. And perhaps, now, I will be acting on that awareness.”  
  
Tom laughed coldly. “As I just said, nothing’s changed.”  
  
“Believe that if you must, Tom,” he said, rising from his seat. “Enjoy your rest, the Aurors will arrive within the next day, most likely. Best to get this mess taken care of before school resumes, after all.”  
  
“Of course, wouldn’t want a Prefect out of commission,” he said scathingly.  
  
Dumbledore gave no reaction save to incline his head slightly, before slipping out between the curtains, leaving him entirely alone.

* * *

 

He woke up to gray skies that he could see from the Infirmary window, the curtains drawn back to allow some weak amount of light to reach him. For a moment, he was confused as to why he was there at all, but then it hit him what had occurred.  
  
Oh Mary, Mother of God. Had he really talked to Dumbledore that way? He mentally recapped the conversations with absolute panic, and was glad to see that he hadn’t seemed to reveal anything dangerous to himself. Just humiliating things, beyond the scope of having run off at the mouth.  
  
 _Granger_. Granger had heard the first exchange with Dumbledore. He smiled grimly. He was going to get his full vengeance for her role in this, but he had to hand it to her. She’d committed the perfect crime that, somehow, made it far more inconvenient for the victim even after the horrible dark magic wore off.  
  
At him waking, the nurse came up. “No one listens to me, but this will be your last day in here, should you not display any more symptoms.”  
  
“Lovely,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. For once, it wasn’t sarcastic.  
  
“Potions, Tom, and then you can go back to sleep,” she said, and he heard her place the vials on the bedside table.  
  
He took them without question, identifying each one as he did, but leaving the calming draught untouched. After she came back, she shook her head, but didn’t protest at his refusal of the draught.  
  
“I don’t need it. Really.”  
  
“I’m not going to make you,” she stated. “Though it’s available, should you change your mind.”  
  
As if he would willingly take a potion that made him completely lose all sense and speak whatever was on his mind. Just another reason to never end up under the care of a Healer unless absolutely necessary. At least he could trust Lucas, in such an event that he needed one.  
  
He had complete control of his magic again and, immediately, he set himself back in order, hiding the scars, but leaving his hair and the shadows beneath his eyes untouched. It wouldn’t do well to appear entirely in order after such an ordeal, especially with aurors coming to question him. “What hour is it?” he asked, as the nurse returned momentarily to set a rather unappetizing plate of food beside him on the table next to the cot.  
  
“About half past seven,” she said. So the Great Hall would begin serving breakfast soon. He wanted to frown. Infirmary food was notoriously bad, from what he’d heard from the other students. Even worse, it reminded him of the orphanage just looking at the contents of his plate, even though it was still better than the swill they were given daily. He made a face at it as soon as the nurse’s back was turned. He was weak, not sick to his stomach.  
  
Still, he wasn’t one to pass up a meal when he could get it. If anything, his years in the confinement of that place had taught him never to pass up food when he had it; you never knew when it might be the last meal you had for some time.  
  
It was in this position that Slughorn happened upon him, with the tray loosely balanced over his legs, picking his way through his food and ignoring the taste and texture as best he could.  
  
“Tom, m’boy, you have no idea how good it is to see you up and awake again. None of us knew...” he said, trailing off worriedly, but then continuing as if he hadn’t said the last bit. “Ah, but, you’re on the mend, much to the relief of everyone here.”  
  
He mustered a tired smile for the plump potions professor. “It’s good to be up and awake again,” he agreed, eating a bite of over-cooked porridge. This couldn’t possibly have been prepared by the elves, elsewise it would have been far better.  
  
“Ah, no doubt, with such good care that’s been taken you’ll be right up and about in no time,” he said cheerfully. He glanced over at the nurse, and Tom perked up. He only did that when he had some contraband to give him. “Right, Miranda?” Slughorn said jovially, even as she sniffed at him.  
  
“If I had it my way he’d be in here for another two days, but unfortunately he has to be back to school soon and insists he’s well enough for it. One little sign, though,” she warned, looking to Tom, “And I’ll have you right back here lickety-split,” she said, before disappearing into the other room.  
  
Slughorn chuckled. “Good lesson to learn, Tom. Never argue with a healer on the rampage.”  
  
“You snuck something in here didn’t you,” he pointed out, mildly amused and allowing it to show through. “You never have that look otherwise, though I doubt it’s booze.”  
  
The potions master cheekily winked. “Ah, you know me too well, boy, though even I wouldn’t give out booze in the Infirmary,” he teased.  
  
“Of _course_ you wouldn’t,” Tom agreed, glancing to where Slughorn typically kept his flask, just under the lapel of his boot, before smiling at the professor. “It’s not like you would ever provide students with alcohol,” he purred. He knew perfectly well that Slughorn not only turned a blind eye to the his favorite students possessing spirits, but also tended to break out the champagne at his little ‘Slug Club’ parties, after the guests had left. And for the right price he’d give a bit of brandy from his own personal stock. The first time he’d ever tried brandy had been with the potion master, after Tom and he had finished their first project together. He’d only been fourteen at the time, but that hadn’t deterred Slughorn. He’d simply held a finger to his lips, smiling a bit before he broke out a couple of tumblers.  
  
The potion master had his bag with him, a rare sight this early in the morning. Tom quirked an eyebrow up as he reached into it, pulling out a neatly-tied box like those that would typically be from a bakery, but he knew it was from the kitchens. “Oh?” he said, as Slughorn held it out to him, a conspiratorial finger held to his lips.  
  
“Don’t tell a soul, but I know how hideous Miranda’s cooking is, m’boy,” he chuckled, even as Tom opened the box to reveal a good few more pastries than he could eat in one sitting. Suddenly his appetite returned, and he took a cheese danish gladly.  
  
“I can’t thank you enough, Professor.” He actually meant this as well. How odd, his usual trite phrases were meant in all seriousness today.  
  
Slughorn merely grinned, sneaking one of the pastries for himself. “Keep it quiet though,” he said through a mouthful of pastry, “She’d have my hide if there were even the smallest crumb on your sheets.”  
  
“Of course, sir,” he said. As if he couldn’t hide a box of pastries from an aging nurse?  
  
“I do hope you’re feeling better,” Slughorn said worriedly, breaking out of the contentment that had ensued. “Awful, that was, seeing you like that.”  
  
“I don’t really remember anything, except for eating one moment and then waking up yesterday, so I suppose that’s a small blessing,” he lied. Spotty though it was, he remembered most of the previous evening, and beyond that he remembered the pain intensely and in great detail. The nightmares were vividly burned into his memories. It’d been a very strong spell indeed.  
  
“Small blessings indeed,” Slughorn agreed quietly. “Do you have any idea, Tom, who could have done this? Such dark magic,” he said, concerned, “few are capable of such things.” Tom wanted to snort. He knew perfectly well that Slughorn turned a blind eye to the Dark Arts practiced by most of Slytherin house just as he ignored alcohol and other bits of contraband, and he knew Slughorn was a practitioner as well for all that you wouldn’t think it, looking at him, though to what extent he wasn’t certain. Then again, none of them could have managed the casting she’d done.  
  
“I haven’t the faintest idea as to who or why,” he lied.  
  
“You’re certain?” Slughorn said, wringing his hands a bit.  
  
“Yes. I mean, to do something like that you’d really have to hate them. I don’t think I have any such intense enemies, really,” he said.  
  
“Yes indeed,” Slughorn murmured. “I don’t know of any within the castle who could have done such a thing. But to cast over long range of any sort, that takes considerable power, a frightening amount really.”  
  
Tom didn’t get what Slughorn was implying for a few moments.  
  
Apparently, Slughorn recognized his mild confusion. “Dark things are about in Britain, of late,” he said sadly. “Dark things indeed, and they have been flitting about the borders of this castle.”  
  
“You think Grindelwald was behind this?” he exclaimed. He didn’t even need to hide his shock, really. Shit. If Slughorn, who wasn’t terribly creative, suspected Grindelwald, than probably quite a few others would too. Possibly even the Aurors. That would result in far more questioning than the typical dark magic attack.  
  
“Tom, you may perhaps not be aware, but people are noticing you. Over the past few years you’ve risen among the other students. Everyone is aware of how you feel about the pure-blooded ideals that our society is, for the most part, centered upon. And you’re absolutely brilliant, Tom, absolutely brilliant. Even among the circles of my own friends people have heard of you, and they’ve been whispering for months now about what you will become upon leaving these halls, about who you will be.”  
  
He placed a surprised expression on his face. Really, he hadn’t intended to make such a strong impression. He was supposed to fade into the background; polite, silent, the puppeteer behind the movings of other students, other forces of power that would make the changes he desired for him, and believe the ideas entirely their own if he guided them well enough. But now that Slughorn was saying this, to reveal such things, there was no question that he had by this point actually registered upon others. The question still remained of whether he had truly been noticed even by those overseas, or the dark presence to the southeast. He doubted it, at this point. He was, for all intents and purposes, just a schoolboy; a normal (though brilliant) sixth year student.  
  
Regardless, being noticed was not in his current plans. He’d have to act accordingly.  
  
“Why, though?” he asked innocently. “I haven’t done anything of note. I don’t see why I could possibly register as a threat, regardless of my beliefs on such matters. It’s not like I’m the only one to possess them.” He sounded duly frantic as required, even as he allowed the lie to overcome him and obscure his real face.  
  
Slughorn took out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow, one of his numerous telling signs of distress. “So many reasons, I’m afraid. You’re a rising student leader who is openly in opposition to such ideals and have expressed such innovative ideas in the past among your teachers and classmates, and you’re situated in Hogwarts which is, without a doubt, a major target for Grindelwald.”  
  
“But I’m barely seventeen yet,” he said nervously, falling seamlessly into the part: a frightened young boy, increasingly realizing that something far bigger than a school bully could have tried to hurt him. His voice shook as he asked, “What could Grindelwald possibly want with me? If he managed to do this much why didn’t he just kill me and be done with it?”  
  
“I don’t know, m’boy,” he said, looking weary beyond his years. “The minds of such monsters can’t be comprehended. I’m afraid we’ll have to leave those questions to the Aurors.”  
  
Tom flinched at this, though he hid it well. ‘Such monsters’. Such monsters as himself, perhaps, for he could understand Grindelwald all too well even from this great distance and only hearing vaguely about his misdeeds.  
  
“Dumbledore said they were going to question me,” he said weakly, changing the subject.  
  
“Oh, it’ll be no trouble, I’m sure. Good lads, they are. I already spoke with Padraic the other evening about my own suspicions, I doubt they’ll have much to ask. Talked to everyone, they did, though clearly nothing was amiss in the school.”  
  
Then Granger was safe and their little game could continue. Though the fact that she’d lied to the Aurors enough to fool them said quite a bit about her; the Sorting Hat had certainly been accurate to put her in Slytherin. Perhaps not accurate in his own sorting, but he had wished it that way. Too suspicious, to be expected to be a manipulator by association. Not to mention that Slytherin students had made a very bad impression on him as snobbish fools on the train, before he’d even arrived at Hogwarts. His original assessment of the students of that house hadn’t changed much, since then, except for a few exceptions.  
  
“When do you think they’ll be coming to speak with me?”  
  
“Rather soon, I believe, they’re often up at an early hour and it seems the department is quite busy today. They’ve already arrived at the castle to take care of matters quickly. We do have returning students to prepare for, after all, ourselves.”  
  
Even as he said this the infirmary door opened and two Aurors entered, unmistakable in their dark red uniforms.  
  
“Ah, well that would be my cue to head off,” Slughorn said, grabbing the nearly-emptied pastry box that they’d worked through and stuffing it into his bag before anyone could notice. Amusingly enough, one of the aurors did notice as they stepped past the curtain but said nothing, the small smile playing across his lips saying he recognized Slughorn well enough to expect such behavior. “Good to be seeing you again, Padraic,” Slughorn said jovially, “Be gentle with him now.” He said it cheerfully enough, but there was the slightest hint of concern beneath his smile.  
  
Tom gave his goodbyes and the turned back to the Aurors. He’d never actually met any before, only seen them from afar when the incident with Pickerson had occurred. Luckily, at least he’d have some experience in dealing with them in a situation where his hide wasn’t as much on the line as someone else’s.  
  
“I’m guessing you have some questions for me, then?” he asked, still playing the part of the curious, if confused, schoolboy.  
  
The Auror that Slughorn had called Padraic took a seat, while the other Auror went to collect a chair, and Tom immediately picked up that the Auror regarding him was clearly in seniority. He was battlescarred, and unsurprisingly had the same sort of wariness that he’d witnessed in other people who’d been through too much, though at least that wariness wasn’t directed at him.  
  
“My name is Padriac Moody,” the Auror offered, “I’m second to the head of the department and I’ll be overseeing your case.”  
  
Shit, they really must think it was Grindelwald if they had the second-in-command on this case. “Thank you. I’ll help as best I can, though, really, I have no idea why this could have happened.”  
  
Moody’s bushy brow raised upward. “Something tells me that’s not entirely the truth.”    
  
Shit. Shit shit shit. But he couldn’t afford to panic. No, he’d have to step with perfect precision around this one. He was quick, and quite obviously good at his job to have obtained such a position. Yes, this man had dealt with numerous dark wizards before. His respect for Granger rose up a notch, if she’d gotten out of this scot-free.  
  
“But I don’t. I don’t know of anyone who would hate me enough to do something that could have killed me.”  
  
“Slughorn just informed you of his own suspicions. You don’t believe him?”  
  
“Not really, though it’s terrifying to think about. Why would the German Dark Lord be interested in attacking me? I’m just a student!”  
  
“Unfortunately, a number of instances have occurred over the previous months that lead us to believe that Gellert Grindelwald is, in fact, beginning to turn his eyes upon Britain. There have been...eliminations, of certain key figures. A member of the Wizengamot itself died three days ago, though it has yet to reach the papers. She was quite outspoken in her dislike of Grindelwald and his ideals; a key figure among purebloods who opposed him. And it has come to our attention that perhaps, you are a key figure in this school among the students. Young, impressionable minds, some of pure-blooded descent, being possibly turned against him.”  
  
He was suitably horrified and scared at the news. He’d known of some of the murders, but not all of them. And if Grindelwald was taking out members of the Wizengamot, then he was already turning his armies towards Britain.  
  
“People are frightened, boy, and it would do you well to take this in all seriousness. Many don’t want to believe that such dangers exist in our land, so close to home. But the truth remains, that danger is still there.”  
  
Oh, he was quite aware but Tom Riddle, the brilliant orphan boy, wouldn’t have known, not really. “I didn’t know. I read the papers, but for so many...”  
  
“Our Minister wishes to prevent the public from panicking. But it would do you well to be aware of where you fall in this situation. You have a choice, boy, right now. You can continue as you have, and as vocally as you have if you decide to, but if such continues there is a very good chance you will be targeted again. Now we absolutely must know if there is anything at all that could have lead to this. Anyone you spoke to within school, anyone who has any sort of grudge against you; perhaps even if you know of any students, whose families may support him?”  
  
“I talk with a lot of the students, but most of the ones who would support Grindelwald, from what I’ve heard, tend to not talk with me anyway because of my blood status.”  
  
“You are a muggleborn, correct? Though you claim half-blooded status,” said the other Auror, who’d come back with a chair.  
  
“My middle name is Marvolo, but my mother died when I was born. I can only assume that I am a halfblood, as the orphanage matron said her name was ‘odd’ as well, though it escaped her.” Insert a suitable amount of dulled, old pain into revealing his rather humble origins, and the lie by omission would go down rather smoothly.    
  
Moody nodded in understanding. “Grindelwald would most likely be unaware of this. And as your background is rather humble, it would appear that a muggleborn was turning pure-blooded students against him.”  
  
“Then you’re positive it’s him?” he whispered. Any sensible person, his age or even older, would be terrified. In reality, he was mainly annoyed at all of this trouble.  
  
“Unfortunately a good portion of what evidence there is points in his direction. But it is all circumstantial, so we can’t say for certain.” Clearly though, for the Auror, his mind had been made up and he believed it was Grindelwald. Unless there was cold, clear evidence, the Ministry officials wouldn’t sign the document showing Grindelwald’s name as the cause. It’d be immediate public panic.  
  
Tom reacted like any school boy would react to hearing a Dark Lord had attempted to kill him: go even more bloodless than he’d been previously.  
  
“I know that is a great deal to take in,” said the other auror with all seriousness, “But we want you to be aware of the enormity of this situation, and that we are doing all within our power to make sure no such incident occurs again.”  
  
 _Not that you have much power_ , he thought with a certain amount of disdain, but on the outside he just nodded anxiously.  
  
“Stay in touch, will you? Let us know, if you hear anything. And we mean anything at all, Mr. Riddle,” intoned Moody, rising from his seat.  
  
They left him then, alone in the silence of his thoughts.

* * *

  
  
Not an hour after his release, he saw Hermione flitting along the hallway, nervous as a little bird with its heart beating a mile a minute. He could barely help himself as his eyes dragged over her body, mapping out internally each and every scar he’d seen in her memories, though he knew there were more that she must have kept hidden. The memory had been stilted and broken, as if she’d picked out other pieces that she refused to allow him to see, only thrusting the most immediate violence in his direction in one desperate attempt to push him from her mind.  
  
It said a great deal about her that she would take memories that were clearly horrific to her and mold them into weapons against his intrusion. He had never witnessed such an ingenious defense mechanism cobbled together in such a short instant and with such viciousness. Yes, Hermione Granger was someone to be watched and considered, he thought as she disappeared around a corner as quickly as she could upon his arrival in the hallway.  
  
That very same hour Tom made a point to visit Slughorn, now that he was free to move about on his own. Not to say that he didn’t visit the pudgy, obnoxious Slytherin head of house relatively often as it was, because the man loved to drop tidbits of information that could potentially be useful and was, generally, beyond his obvious simpering behavior, relatively pleasant in his sheer honesty alone. Today though, Tom wasn’t walking down to knock on the door of Slughorn’s private quarters simply for idle chitchat, no, he had intent to learn about a very specific subject.  
  
And he didn’t doubt for a second, seeing how Slughorn had latched onto her and her well being, that he’d be more than happy to talk about the new addition to his house. He would have to work the conversation up to the real topic of his interest, but he had a feeling that the trouble would be worth it.  
  
“Tom, m’boy, what a delightful surprise! Feeling any better? You certainly look much improved.”  
  
“Hello, Professor,” Tom said, inclining his head and glancing ‘furtively’ down the hall. “I was hoping that you would be here. And yes, I do feel much better. It’s good to be out of bed.”  
  
“Glad to have you up and about again. Of course, anything, whatever you need! Come in, come in,” said Slughorn, as he ushered him into his quarters. “Now, what can I do for you?”  
  
“Well, um,” Tom looked absently to the wall, rather than meeting Slughorn’s eyes. “I was wondering, I know it’s not particularly proper of me to ask of you, but I was hoping that...”  
  
“Spit it out, Tom, don’t have all day, wot! Well, actually I do, but that’s beside the point,” Slughorn chortled. If he wasn’t knee-deep in his part, he would have rolled his eyes.  
  
“The aurors think it’s Grindelwald,” he said, his words coming out in a rush, and looked up to his professor, obviously concerned. The professor mirrored his expression, and gestured for Tom to take a seat, and took the one across from Tom once he did.  “They wouldn’t say as much on the reports I don’t think because there’s no obvious evidence, but they said to watch myself and if I’m continuing what I’m doing--” he took a deep breath, and fell silent. “He might target me again.”  
  
The wrinkles along Slughorn’s forehead deepened as he frowned, looking anxious and his mind clearly searching for what to tell him. Words of comfort, most likely, considering Slughorn’s general attitude. Slughorn liked having influence, but not in relation to anything dangerous.    
  
“If there was anything I could do, m’boy, I would. But I don’t have that kind of power.”  
  
Whatever he had been expecting, that had not been it. Something seemed to lodge itself in the back of his throat, when he opened his mouth to respond, and he leaned back in his chair, taking a sharp breath. He had to keep his act together, keep it flawless. “I know. And really Professor, I appreciate that, more than you realize. I just...I don’t know what to do. He’s a bloody Dark Lord! How am I supposed to go up against that?”  
  
Slughorn shook his head and pulled out his flask and drank from it. There was barely the sound of sloshing liquid in the container, a lot emptier than Tom usually heard, and really that was more telling than anything about Slughorn’s visible distress. He had been drinking a good bit more than usual, and he only drank like that when he was stressed or worried. “It’s not something you try to go up against, Tom. You leave that for the Aurors to handle. They’re trained to fight and protect.”  
  
Tom leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling, his gaze dulled. He didn’t really have to fake his exhaustion, it was quite real. “The Aurors aren’t doing anything. The ministry won’t even allow the papers to print most things they hear coming out of Germany. They told me yesterday a member of the Wizengamot was murdered, you’d think that at least would reach the public.”  
  
“No, it’s not in the papers, but Amber, bless her, no,” said Slughorn.  
  
Tom leaned forward a bit in his seat, eyes opening fully. “You knew?” But of course Slughorn would have known, he was expecting this. Tom Riddle, schoolboy and prefect, would not have had that foresight, not with the events of recent days taken into account.  
  
“Technically it wasn’t my business to know, but it’s just us now. But yes, I was aware her death was not natural. But that also leads me to think that you weren’t targeted for death either, though still horrible nonetheless.”  
  
“He’s trying to scare me,” Tom said, faking dawning realization. “It wouldn’t look good if I died outright, he’s trying to scare me and the other students into silence.”  
  
“It is entirely possible that Grindelwald was looking for someone to target in the school in order to generate fear, and you fit the bill he was looking for. Still means terrible things, though, especially if he still has your blood.”  
  
Tom went white, and he wasn’t sure if it was real or part of the act. How many people would realize the spell for what it was? “You’re not saying it was a nightmare curse.”  
  
Slughorn gave Tom a short look, then took another draft from his flask.  
  
“You’re saying it’s blood magic.” Shit. He needed to fucking think before he blurted out whatever came to mind, why wasn’t he now? It wasn’t something he would have known, even with the passes to the restricted section that Slughorn had given him.  
  
Slughorn seemed to take his slip in stride, and nodded slowly. “I think so. Not sure what sort of spell was done, but not even the specialists knew what to do about it, and some of the other signs point to it as well. Horrible, horrible branch of magic that there’s no reason to use, and very few do, thank Merlin. Though clearly my suspicions didn’t escape you.”  
  
Tom slowly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Things just seemed to be getting worse by the hour, at this point, but this...this could get him in serious trouble. A well-seasoned wizard would be hard-pressed to recognize such things; a student of his age shouldn’t have even known of such magics. “Professor--”  
  
“This just between us, m’boy, but do be careful of what you read about. Lots of dangerous things in this world of ours.”  
  
Tom let out the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding.  
  
“You’ve been doing more than just research, haven’t you, Tom?” Slughorn asked, his voice soft. The potions professor leaned forward in his seat suddenly, clasping his hands loosely in his lap. “I need you to be entirely honest with me here, Tom, this is quite important. I assure you I’m not going to ‘rat you out’, there are numerous students within my own house who have practiced dark magic.”  
  
“Yes, but just some,” he said, deciding that the lie needed to be salted with some truth. In comparison to how much he’d read, he hadn’t done nearly as much as he would have liked.  
  
“‘Just a bit’, then? Blood magic isn’t something that’s listed in the restricted section, m’boy.”  
  
“Research isn’t the same thing as actually doing it. I’ve never done blood magic ever, but I do know about it.”  
  
“Nasty stuff, it is,” Slughorn agreed, seeming to accept his answer. “But Tom, I do want you to know, you can tell me whatever you need to, at any time. I’m here to help you, even with things you can’t discuss with other teachers, as you clearly aren’t going to your head of house with any of this.”  
  
“...They might misunderstand,” Tom said carefully.  
  
“Most likely,” said the potions master, agreeing. “It’s a very misunderstood art, but with good reason, as it’s so very easy to go down the wrong paths. Just be careful, Tom, as I’m sure a boy as bright as yourself understands.”  
  
He nodded, visibly relieved, and leaned back in his seat, dragging his hands over his face tiredly. “I don’t want you to misunderstand either, Professor,” he said, meeting Slughorn’s eyes. It was a tough thing, talking about the dark arts, and this was perhaps the greatest and most spectacularly farcical lie he’d ever told, but he’d be damned if he didn’t pull it off. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, really, to completely abandon an entire branch of magical knowledge just because it’s dangerous, especially when typically it is used in criminal effect. Gaining an understanding of that magic, and being able to apply it to other things, or in a positive manner, I think, is something I’m very interested in.”  
  
Slughorn seemed to completely buy it, and he was actually rather proud of himself in that moment, for managing to pull that off considering how poorly he’d been doing so far this day. Though this was the time to get off the Dark Arts. He’d been putting his foot too much into his mouth in the past two days. Time to get onto safer topics.  
  
“But blood magic...whether he has my blood or not, I can’t just let it pass and allow what he did to me to inspire fear in the other students. I’m not going to give him exactly what he wants. I don’t care if he’s a Dark Lord, I’m not just going to be made an example of.”  
  
This was not something Hermione had anticipated, he was sure, that he would twist the results of her attack to his benefit. Then again, he wondered if she had really contemplated the action much at all, and instead had been driven solely by her own fury. Either way it could potentially be useful to him. Much as he disliked the situation, he would utilize what cards had been given to him to their fullest. If he could find more people who were against Grindelwald and might be able to be swayed into allying or joining with the Knights, then this situation was worth it.  
  
After, of course, he got his proper vengeance on her.  
  
“It’s very brave, Tom, but do be careful regardless,” said Slughorn anxiously.  
  
“The only thing I have to lose is myself, Professor,” Tom said curtly. “And that isn’t much. It doesn’t matter what happens to me as long as the students are still able to oppose him and realize that they have a choice.”  
  
“There are many people who are upset, and will be soon, about what happened, and not for fear of Grindelwald alone but for you yourself, Tom,” he said. The potions professor was looking at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, and for a moment he wondered if he’d allowed something to slip, some little crack in the mask, but he brushed the thought away. Focus, he needed to focus regardless of how tired he was. He’d had enough mishaps for one day.  
  
“Be that as it may it doesn’t change what I feel about this,” he said seriously. Not that there was actually any danger, but internally, Slughorn’s words amused him. People wouldn’t miss him. They would miss what they saw him to be, if at all. Perhaps Lucas would, but even Lucas didn’t know what he was really like, not fully. Still, to focus on the issue at hand, it was time to transition this conversation some. “I hope though perhaps, with this, Hogwarts will be safe for a while, especially if it was just a fear demonstration.”  
  
“I hope so as well, m’boy, I really do,” Slughorn said sadly. “Though I’m afraid that may not be the case.”  
  
Tom frowned. “Why not?” he asked openly.  
  
Slughorn sighed. “This is just between us, m’boy, but I’m becoming more and more aware that Miss Granger’s arrival was more than just that of a runaway seeking asylum. She’s probably still being pursued.”  
  
He lowered his gaze to the floor, and whispered darkly, “You don’t just get scars like that from being a refugee. I rather figured, it was something like that.”  
  
“No, not really. And I worry for her, for how little I know her, just as I do for you. It isn’t right, bringing children into a war in this way. And how she arrived...I know the woman Hermione met when she came into the ministry, that day, told me all about it.” He shuddered visibly.  
  
“...How did she arrive?” Tom asked tentatively.  
  
“She looked like a skeleton, and was worn to a thread. But she carried herself right up to the front desk of the ministry entrance, said who she was and that she was looking for her aunt and uncle, and then passed out right there in the middle of the hall. Transported to Mungo’s immediately, thank goodness, but she was there for three months in recovery before she was returned to her family. Was eventually moved to a secured area to keep assassins away, during her stay.”  
  
“That’s...terrible, that’s absolutely terrible,” he said, mildly shocked and amplifying the feeling to display openly on his face, far stronger than it really was. He hadn’t realized that she’d been hospitalized for such a time. And such a dramatic arrival! It was almost amusing, in a way, because really it did fit with what he knew of her. When she wasn’t as quiet as a mouse, she was a hellion. And she did to inspire the most dramatic happenings around her, even as clearly she wished she didn’t.  
  
“It is. I really question her family’s decision to send her to school, but from what she implies she insisted to come.”  
  
“...But why, though, if it put her in more danger?” He had a feeling he knew, though his persona would not have recognized it. She was clearly driven by something, a goal that made her move on from safety rather quickly--if she’d already been in the hospital on her birthday, as he guessed from that lie she’d told before their duel. Clearly, something more was at risk here, something that was more important to her, perhaps, than her own safety, her own health, her own life, even.  
  
Slughorn shook his head. “She’s a strong girl, and seems like she wouldn’t want to impose on her relatives, for all that she wouldn’t be. But she’ll no doubt be brilliant.”  
  
“That’s quite selfless,” Tom mused. “And I already know she’s brilliant, really, she shows it at every turn whenever she’s not being so quiet.”  
  
The man took another swig from his flask. Apparently this had been a very stressful hols for Slughorn. “Yes, and it’s no surprise. Her father was one of the best in the field, and couldn’t have gotten as far as he did without her aid, considering he was a squib.”  
  
“What did he do?” he asked tentatively, noting a number of key things that Slughorn had given him, saying this. Reference in past tense, probably deceased. Was a researcher of some sort. Squib. Hermione probably helped him, and judging by her own skill, the aid she provided was likely magical in nature at the very least, though with her intellect he’d bet she had a much bigger part than anyone imagined. Especially since if this was so, her father was dead and it was _Hermione_ that was being hunted. The thought of not finding out _what for_ , though, was unbearable. “What did they study?”  
  
“He studied the arcane magics. Ancient things, stuff that’s been mostly lost for centuries upon centuries, often times longer. Nothing in my field, but that sort of research tends to make a splash. And from what I’ve heard of Miss Granger, she took the information they learned, and applied it. Can do things with a wand you’d never dream of, that child. And was beginning to write her own papers, branching off into her own research just as things really took a turn for the worst in Germany with Grindelwald. Her father was thorough, but not one to theorize or take it past the hard facts. She was far more open in that arena.”  
  
“That’s fantastic,” Tom said, and really he meant it entirely. The sheer potential this girl had. Or might have, really, if he didn’t ruin his chances at using that potential, with what he was about to do. Then again, sacrifices were required. She’d hurt him, and she couldn’t simply get away with that. Especially since she could do it again at any time, or worse, should she decide. No, he had to get even, and get his blood from her possession before he could even stop to consider what potential she had. Because really, that potential could be all too dangerous to him, as it was. “It makes me a bit envious, in an academic way. I do hope that she participates in class, for all her quietness.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure she will!” said Slughorn with false cheerfulness. So he agreed in Tom’s assessment that she might not take to class life as well as most people hoped she would. Slughorn looked thoughtful, for a moment. “It’s very interesting. Usually the child of a squib, even with another magical parent, tends to turn out a Muggle. But Hermione’s mother was a German Muggle he met when he left Britain. Had to leave the country, as they wouldn’t let him study here under the Statute of Secrecy, not to mention being disowned. Sad, sad business.”  
  
Tom leaned back in his chair moodily, though he didn’t really allow his emotion to show through as anything but discontent at the idea of such things. Every pureblooded family, it seemed, had dirty laundry. But even when it was hung out to dry, people just passed it off as ‘sad business’. Disgusting. But still, it was time, perhaps, for a change of tactic yet again. They sat in silence, for a time, and it was quickly enough, as expected, that Slughorn grew uncomfortable with the quiet. He never could be calm, in still air, if there was another person in the room. Always had to be chatting about one thing or another.  
  
Slowly, a small smile came to Slughorn’s face. “M’boy, forgive a man for prying, but I have a suspicion as to why you’re so interested in Miss Granger.”  
  
He had to work to suppress a smirk. _Exactly according to plan_ , he thought as he raised his head, pasting a surprised look on his face. “Excuse me?”  
  
Slughorn chuckled. This was perfect. Slughorn had gained power through his interest and meddling in people’s love lives, and he, like most teachers, was immensely curious about which students ended up dating who. Especially in Hogwarts, where sixth and seventh year relationships often led to later marriages. “Oh, come now, it’s been obvious at meals for ages. Fell hard and fast for her, eh? I can understand. She’s extraordinarily intelligent.”  
  
Tom ducked his head, and muttered, “I’m dating Amarys.” It really hadn’t even been a conscious decision when he’d decided to pass off his interest in Hermione as romantic. It was simply the most obvious solution; if everyone believed he was pining after her, his interest and open pursuit of information about her wouldn’t be subject to suspicion.  
  
It would probably turn out rather dramatic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Amarys was just one of the girls he’d dated out of slight interest and entertainment, mainly to sate his physical desires. But really this was turning out to be far more entertaining than any such relationships had been in the past, and it was no great sacrifice, really, to set aside that physicality for a time and pursue other things.  
  
Besides, even with his list of girls, none of them really had anything bad to say about him. One black mark on his record would gain some gossip, but it wasn’t damning. After all, “Tom Riddle”, his persona, had to make some human mistakes.  
  
“Then you’re in a right pickle, I’m afraid,” said Slughorn, trying to be sympathetic but failing to pass it off entirely. “  
  
He sighed heavily, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I am,” he agreed tiredly.  
  
“The heart wants what it wants. You’ll find a way. You’re a good lad. Happens to the best of us, despite what people like to say.  
  
He rubbed his eyes, a move that could easily be interpreted as frustration. “I don’t think she likes me very much though. She’s skittish, every time I try to talk to her. We occasionally have actual conversations but most of the time it’s like she is with everyone else: quiet, wary, like everyone’s out to get her.”  
  
Slughorn sighed, looking sad. “I think there’s nothing that can be done in that regard. You fell for a very complicated young woman with a very deep, painful past that she just escaped. But she’ll probably come around in time, once she gets to know you.”  
  
“Maybe,” Tom said, seeming unconvinced and moody. “Professor...I’m sorry to cut this conversation short but I have to prepare for the return of the other students tomorrow,” he said, making it obvious that he was ‘making his escape’ from an ‘uncomfortable’ subject.  
  
“Of course, of course,” said Slughorn, badly hiding his amusement. “Take care, Tom. If I can help you in any way, just let me know. And take care of yourself.”  
  
“Of course, Professor,” Tom said, smiling awkwardly as he inclined his head. “And Professor Slughorn?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He beamed, radiating happiness, as he stood up from his chair to see Tom to the door. “You’re more than welcome. Always glad to help you out, m’boy,” said Slughorn fondly.  
  
Tom smiled pleasantly. “Anything you need, Professor, just let me know and I will do what I can. Good day.”

* * *

  
  
After that, he waited for night to fall, and for her to do her nightly wandering. He was behind every corner, in the darkness beyond her candlelight as she roamed the halls late that night, familiarizing herself with the castle (it seemed that she had, in fact, brought herself to look inside the library book he had given her and was putting the information to good use). He had learned quickly, on previous days, that she was not in the Slytherin dorms, but in her own heavily warded room with magic both familiar and unfamiliar to him, just beyond Professor Slughorn’s own quarters. It was fascinating, and he had often played with the fading tendrils on the edges of the wards when not following her on her walks, careful to not let her feel his intrusions. He could see immediately that her magic had been warped and weaponized by trauma and whatever other trials she had experienced, passing from Germany through France, on her way to Britain. The barriers screamed of it, of a certain sort of desperation to stay in and stay safe.  
  
It was a careful game that he was playing, even more so upon realizing that Granger was very fragile, but strangely that didn’t make him enjoy it any less. If anything it was now less of a test of his ability to terrorize her as much as him testing the boundaries of just what she could handle. There was nothing like adding extra variables to the mix to make the challenge that much more intense. Besides, really, it had been her who decided how intense this game would get, with the unprecedented use of blood magic.  
  
Things were about to get interesting, this evening. He was done, investigating what made Hermione Granger tick. “Happy birthday to me,” he hummed under his breath, waltzing forward through the halls in the blackness of the unlit corridors, to the music that only played within the darker recesses of his mind as he approached Hermione’s quarters with an easy, unhurried gait. She’d returned to them about an hour before, after she’d stopped wandering the castle. They stood out like a beacon in his mind, wards blazing with unseen fire in the shadowed halls of the dungeons. He ran his fingers along the walls, picking at the strings of magic she had painstakingly woven together, working apart the key points as he had been over the past few days at his leisure. There were only two more points left to overcome by then, and it would take just the slightest...bit...of prodding....there.  
  
Tom stepped towards the door as the wards dropped, and was about to push aside the tapestry when something collided painfully with his face. An involuntary hand rose to where he’d been hit, even as he looked down and realized that it had been her doorknob that had spun at him like a projectile. Then he heard a blast, and he had just enough time to put a shield up before the door came careening from its position on the wall to splinter against his barrier. The combined force of the blast and the bits of wood didn’t quite hide Hermione’s mad dash from her room and down the hallway, but it gave her enough time to get a good head start.  
  
A wide, unsettling grin stretched across his lips despite the pain as he staggered to his feet. Dusting off the shards of wood, he proceeded to repair the door; wouldn’t do any good for someone to realize that there’d been trouble, after all. And then the chase was on, and he raced down the hallway after her, pacing himself. She’d tire eventually, after all, no matter how fit she was (and watching her as he had, he’d recognized the signs of recent illness and exhaustion), not to mention what Slughorn had told him about her stay in St. Mungo’s.  
  
He grinned widely when the sound of her shoes, which he’d heard clearly before, disappeared. Oooh, a muffling charm. How delightful. His wand snapped out, firing into the darkness from the direction he’d last heard her, the locator spell fanning out in a wave of green upon hitting a solid surface and bouncing about the walls, lighting up the end of the hall until he saw her, ringed in eerie light, glancing back at him, her hair and eyes wild. She knew this was a chase as much as he did, and she wanted to win.  
  
 _Simply wonderful_ , he thought with a grin.  
  
Realizing she had been spotted, she careened down a side hallway as the spell faded. It was taking her further into the dungeons and away from the staircases leading out, and he wondered what she was planning. This was quickly becoming his favorite birthday of all thus far, even despite the trouble with the Aurors and Dumbledore. He fired off another volley of spells, one after the other as she came into sight again, and she managed to block them all to his complete surprise and entertainment, save for the last, which got her right in the chest, having penetrated her shield charm.  
  
Rather than fall back, though, she used the momentary stop from the pain of a mild cruciatus to send an array of spells in his direction, many of which were entirely unrecognizable save for by the fact that at least half of them were dark in nature. “Oh, I like you,” Riddle purred, either reflecting or sidestepping each one. Yes, this one clearly a Dark Arts practitioner, no question about it.  
  
She seemed to not have expected them to land, and had taken his momentary distraction as an opportunity to disappear down another corridor.  
  
“Point me, Hermione Granger,” he called out, wand spinning in his hand and stopping sharply off to the left, slowly following after. Funny, how useful a spell parents used to locate missing children was, for something such as this.  
  
He noticed, then, that she made another turn, going towards the direction they had come, but several corridors down, most likely heading to the staircase leading out of the dungeons. Swaying around the corner after her, he grinned as he caught sight of her on the first few steps, desperately dashing her way up the stair.  
  
“Accio Granger’s wand.” This failed as her grip tightened instantly upon the wand’s shaft, and he corrected himself. “Accio Hermione Granger’s amulet.”  
  
The long chain around her neck went taut, and her hands flew to the amulet with a gasp as suddenly she was wrenched off the stair and dragged by the neck towards him. She desperately tried to get it off, forgetting her magic in her panic, but the pressure of his spell was more than enough to circumvent any efforts. She struggled simply to take in air, until he had her within reach. He hauled her up by the front of her dress until her feet lifted from the floor, grasping the hand that held her wand with his free one. Even as she gulped in fresh air, she glared at him.  
  
“You’re an awfully timid little bird, aren’t you, running from me like that. You’d almost think you were afraid I’d want _revenge_ , wouldn’t you? I don’t like being avoided, Granger.”  
  
“Can’t say I give a damn, Riddle,” she panted, her neck a deep red where the necklace had dug in.  
  
“Oh really?” he purred, “The fact that you ran says quite a lot, actually.”  
  
“Let me rephrase that, then,” she said, but it clearly wasn’t said in an attempt to appease him. “I don’t give a damn what you like, Riddle.”  
  
“I’m certain you don’t, Granger, but I have a habit of getting whatever I want, by whatever means are at my disposal,” he said, his voice dripping false sincerity.  
  
Without even looking away from his face, she kicked him with all the strength she could muster.  
  
He winced, but clearly to her immediate disappointment he failed to loosen his hold even by the slightest, though he was obviously in pain. Instead, a sticking charm formed beneath his fingertips, and then her wrists fused together behind her back as he neatly plucked her wand from her fingers. “Let’s play twenty questions then,” he murmured, and then she was flung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and with about as much care. Even as exhausted as he was, it did not require as much effort to carry her as it should have. “Though you’re going to like it far less than our last round,” he said conversationally even as he walked down the hall, carrying her the whole way.  
  
She struggled valiantly, trying to wrest from his arms, kick him, anything to get him to drop her. Still he held on tightly, grabbing her legs up with his free arm and using another sticking charm to hold them together, even as she writhed against his grip. Though her limbs were completely bound she still struggled, her muscles working uselessly against the sticking charm.  
  
Hermione would have perceived it as a relatively ordinary, innocuous blank spot of wall had she not been to the common room before, which being a Slytherin she obviously had. He gave the password with a smile, and the corridor to the Slytherin common room appeared.  
  
He could tell she was praying that Belby would be present in the common room upon their arrival, but it seemed there was little luck for Granger today, as it was entirely empty of any human presence. A few select portraits on the wall gave him an odd look as a Hufflepuff entered with the girl slung over his shoulder. Not that they hadn’t seen him before; he’d been through the common room a number of times. They wouldn’t tell, of course, not with who he was. The doors automatically allowed him to enter regardless of the use of passwords, seeming to recognize his heritage with the smallest touch. Still, it wouldn’t do to have Hermione learn that little tidbit of information, and so he used the assigned pass-code this time. Raising a finger to his lips, he inclined his head slightly to the portraits.  
  
Unfortunately, Hermione’s luck seemed to snap back into being as Edward Belby bounced down the stairs with a cheerful whistle, several books in hand, presumably planning to drop down onto one of the common room couches and snooze between bouts of reading.  
  
The black-haired teen stopped short, clearly shocked at the sight of the Hufflepuff 6th year prefect in the Slytherin common room, Hermione Granger slung over his shoulder. Riddle felt her head turn as she looked over to find what had made him stop.  
  
“RUN!” she screamed before he could cast a silencing charm, and even as the boy looked ready to turn back, he raised his wand and pointed it at him.  
  
“Obliviate,” Riddle intoned, wand raising as the spell sparked from its tip, hitting Belby directly in the head. The boy staggered and fell to the ground. “You tripped on the stairs,” Riddle said absently, walking over and pointing his wand directly between Belby’s eyes as he landed a careful kick to his head, not hard enough to cause serious damage of any sort, but enough that he would have evidence to support the memory. “And don’t quite remember much after that. Somnus.” Belby collapsed entirely, eyes rolling back into his head as he fell into a deep slumber.  
  
“Just another casualty?” she asked, her voice dripping with hatred and fury.  
  
“Unfortunately. Not that I care, really, Belby has always had a bit of a habit of being in the wrong place at the right time.”  
  
“Never said that I expected you to care. You have more than made it clear that your empathy is nonexistent.”  
  
“Yes, an unfortunate side-effect of my birth, but as you have pointedly said, ‘not that I care’,” he said absently, leaning against a tapestry and whispering the parseltongue password softly enough that it would barely reach her ears. The wall slid inward, and he brushed the tapestry aside, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. A waft of cold, musty air came pouring from the passage, blowing her hair into her eyes.  
  
“So help me, Riddle, should I die, there will be no banishing spell that will stop my spirit from haunting you for eternity.”  
  
“I don’t have to kill you to make you suffer, Granger,” he purred, each torch bursting into flame with a wave of his hand, one after the other in quick succession, revealing the stair to lead far deeper than she would ever have thought the dungeons went.  
  
“That damn book didn’t cover this,” she muttered.  
  
“There is a great deal that the book doesn’t cover.”  
  
“Clearly there should be an appendix on how to expel Dark Lords.”  
  
He snorted. “Hogwarts has a surprising amount of history with Dark Lords. Salazar Slytherin was one, after all, though he never went so far as many others.”  
  
“And look how he turned out,” she said snidely. “Kicked out of Hogwarts by his contemporaries for being a crazy bigot.”  
  
“Actually he left of his own accord, but that’s neither here nor there,” Tom said absently, jogging her a bit on his back and inciting a small scream from her at the motion. He laughed quietly. “Scared are you, Granger?” He’d been waiting for her to scream, at least a bit, the whole evening. The fact that it had taken so long was just proof of how fun this little game was, and how much better it was going to be in the next few minutes.  
  
“Pissed off is my main emotion.”  
  
“I wonder how much louder I can make you scream,” he mused absently. “You certainly did your own bit of working on me, after all. Though I won’t be resorting to blood magic. There’s a different fate in store for you.”  
  
She seemed to shudder, as much as she could in her binds, going completely silent as the horror of what he said overtook her. A wave of vindictive amusement coursed through him at this reaction, and he smirked. He didn’t say anything else, just letting that little comment hang in the air as he descended the stairs.    
  
“What are you going to do?” she yelled, trying again to get out of her restraints, and her magic roared around him. Oh yes, she was either very angry or absolutely terrified. Knowing her, they were probably interchangeable. Good. She ought to squirm, for what she’d done.  
  
“Patience, Granger. You’ll see,” he said pleasantly, jogging her on his shoulder a bit again. She shrieked, and he grinned widely. He hadn’t realized that it would be quite this enojyable.  
  
They reached the base of the stairway after some minutes had passed, opening out onto a larger room with many connected doors. He was lucky she was so small and thin. It seemed he’d overestimated one thing; she was weak, physically, to the point where she was very much underweight and her muscles were underdeveloped. He could feel her ribs against his shoulder, through the fabric of her dress. Her time on the run had done more than enough to put her far below her typical level of health, even despite her stay at the hospital. That meant that even at this level when she was obviously not at her best, she was still almost matching him, still defying him with everything she had.  
  
He came up to the first door on the right, opening it to reveal an old chamber, once used by Salazar himself to school those who wished to learn the secrets of the Dark Arts. He had been a man who believed in a well-rounded knowledge, after all, something which Godric Gryffindor and the others had rebelled against. A single, sturdy iron chair was in the center of the room, so old that were it not metal it would only have lasted so long by magic alone. It was seated just opposite a circle of runes with a questionable stain at its center that looked equally aged, bits of dark, clotted material flaking from its place on the floor. The wall literally hummed with protective wards and circles, and Hermione was obviously staring at them open-mouthed as he transferred her into both arms, holding her before him.  
  
He wasn’t surprised when she tried yet again to get away. He kept his hold on her, carrying her to the table at the other side of the room and dumping her onto it unceremoniously. Reaching beneath the table, he calmly withdrew a length of rope from a hook underneath, his eyes never leaving hers as he did so. No, he couldn’t look away, her reaction was too amusing for him to stop now. He’d stolen this rope especially for the occasion, after all, a little something she couldn’t get out of easily as it was, and doubly so with all the spells he’d laced into its fibers.  
  
“No no no no you damn rotten bastard,” she bit out, furious, even as she began to violently shake, shrinking away from him.  
  
“Do you want me to shut you up, too? Because I can do that,” he said absently, lifting her legs and tying the rope tight about her ankles, just enough to almost hinder her circulation. He wouldn’t silence her though: it was far more entertaining to listen to her as she slowly became more panicked with each passing moment.  
  
She struggled, and she was beyond words in her fury, screaming and shouting. “You are not going to get away with this, I swear,” she got out before it just became a string of swears in a variety of languages, some he vaguely recognized and some he didn’t. Was that last word Ancient Greek?  
  
“On the contrary, Granger, I am getting away with it. Clearly, as you’ve shown, a lot of unsavory activities can happen in the halls of Hogwarts,” he said lightly, flipping her sharply onto her stomach and eliciting a short, terrified scream as a result. That scream had been much better. “So let’s see how nasty this can get, since you pushed me to this point. It’s unfortunate for you, as I was intending to leave you be after that last incident.”  
  
She paused, just momentarily, in surprise, but she didn’t waste much time in that state, trying to fight again within moments.  
  
He leaned a knee forward onto the table, climbing onto its surface after her, holding her down with one knee pressed dangerously against the back of her neck as he snatched her hands up the moment he let the sticking charm free. She was quick, but she couldn’t risk moving too much. Tom forced them behind her back, binding them even as she struggled, a sob escaping her lips. He could have done it with a simple wave of his wand, he supposed, but knowing her there might be some risk in her getting away, if he wasn’t careful.  
  
“There, now that wasn’t quite so hard, was it?” he whispered against her ear.  
  
“Was screaming your most terrifying memories to all and sundry so bad?” she hissed back.  
  
“Not really, but reliving every single beating, that was,” he growled. “And I very much hated the ensuing conversation with Dumbledore, and with the Aurors. They think it’s Grindelwald, though I’m sure you know that much by now. Incredibly lucky of you, Granger, incredibly lucky. That must have been incredibly impulsive of you, to throw that together in such a short time. Did you even consider the effects?”  
  
“Yes,” she said, but the lie was so obvious that he wondered why she had even bothered.  
  
“You know, Granger, when you attempt to lie, you really need to school your face. I have no idea how you managed to fool the Aurors so blithely, because you’re not showing any such acting finesse to me right now.”  
  
“Pardon me, should I start cartwheeling and juggling? Clearly I am preoccupied, and you’re wanting me to perform?”  
  
“No, Granger. I don’t want a performance, not really. I want to rip off all your little facades. One. By. One. Until there isn’t a single thing left for you to hide,” he hissed. “I’m only returning the favor,” he said, his voice going gentle, soothing, “After all you did place me in a position where I was forced to bare some of my worst to someone I hate.”  
  
“You fucking hypocrite. You forced me to reveal things I’d literally planned to take to the grave with me. As if you can call this even.”  
  
“Well, too bad for you but I’ve decided I’m not done with you yet,” he said coldly. “And one side has to win eventually, Granger. If you want to survive this then you better pick up your fucking game and fight me. Because we both know how this ends, Granger, with the way we’re going. This doesn’t stop just because you want it to, it’s gone too far for that.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment, though her struggles never ceased. He caught a glimpse of her face and she was clearly afraid, but also angry and thoughtful. An unusual mix, for her situation. Again, always surprising him even in the most unlikely of moments. He didn’t think he would attempt to kill her first, but considering her last retaliation, she might very well try this time. It’d be very disappointing, to have to kill her.  
  
Ah well. He’d leave, at some point, and find where she was keeping his blood. It wouldn’t do, for her to have such an easy method at her disposal. And he had no doubt that, sensible as she seemed to be, she’d rationed out only the absolute barest amount needed for the spell.  
  
“So, you’re planning to kill me?” she asked, and voice was calm. Unusually so. He glanced down to look at her face, and nearly stopped short, though he schooled himself. He’d never seen anyone have such an expression. He wondered if he ought to kill her. Her face seemed to be spelling out her intentions.  
  
He leaned back, remaining out of her view for a few spare moments, his expression thoughtful. She was beyond fury, now, and her face had descended into a cold, expressionless calm that said she had either accepted that she was going to die, or that if she ever escaped this place the first thing she would do was attempt murder.  
  
“Thinking about it, aren’t you?” he asked softly, leaning a bit less heavily against her back with his knee, though she still was rendered immobile. “How good it would feel, killing me?”  
  
“Killing someone doesn’t feel good, Riddle. It just is,” she said, her voice neutral.  
  
“Oh but you’d like it if I died, wouldn’t you,” he murmured.  
  
“No, but between you and me, I’ll always choose me,” she stated.  
  
“Hm. Nothing but self-preservation, then. That’s all you have left, isn’t it? Just continuing through the motions,” he said speculatively, watching her.  
  
“Clearly not, considering the last round,” she said. Ah, admittance to the game. He knew she’d stop lying to herself, eventually.  
  
“Quite true,” he agreed, amusement lacing his words. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his switchblade, just outside of her view. His silence seemed to unnerve her, and she wriggled against her restraints. The further it stretched, the more panicked she grew. He smiled to himself, allowing the minutes to tick by as her mind worked furiously. She was brilliant and quite aware, probably, of just how thoroughly researched magical torture had been, over the centuries. Psychological was his preference though.  
  
“Damn it, Riddle,” she swore, another jerk signifying another failed attempt at getting herself out.  
  
Sometimes, allowing the victim’s thoughts to conjure the torture for them was far, far more effective than actually employing it, he thought absently. Then again, judging by her scars and the fact that she’d still survived, bleeding as heavily as she must have been upon their creation, it’d probably been a far more careful torture than most people would suspect, especially looking at her. In torture, it was far harder keeping a victim alive than it was to kill them.    
  
At this point, she was almost continuously trying to get out of her bonds, never seeming to even stop for breath.  
  
He flicked the switchblade open.  
  
She made a terrified sound that wasn’t quite a scream when she heard it, still trying to keep herself from going into a full-blown panic even as he felt magic burning from the palm of her hands. She couldn’t get out that way, though. Especially not since before seeing Slughorn he’d taken a little trip down to this very chamber, to prepare for this. It wouldn’t have done to use ordinary rope, after all, not with her tendency at wandless magic.  
  
He wrenched her back by her hair, sliding the tip of the blade just barely enough for her to feel its presence, over the skin of her throat.  
  
She screamed, then. Ah, that was the one he’d been waiting for, even as his ears hurt at the volume.  
  
“Careful, Granger, wouldn’t want to gut yourself on the blade.”  
  
She stopped, but he had a feeling it was more desperate instinct than any sort of control she had. Judging by the tears coursing down her face, she’d clearly lost her battle against panic.  
  
“I wonder if I can make you scream until your throat bleeds, like you did to me,” he murmured, drawing the blade just barely over her cheek.  
  
She shuddered, and tried to turn away, even with his hand in her hair. He yanked her back, and the thinnest cut, barely even there, swept across her cheek. He watched the blood for a second with distant interest, observing the way it curved over the edge of the blade in a dark, beaded line, before turning back to study her reaction.  
  
Hermione gave a small, whimpered sob. She was trying to hold them back, again, but once they started they seemed to bubble up.  
  
“Oh, does that hurt?” he asked coldly, not the slightest bit of feeling entering his words. She’d given him far, far worse just a few hours before, after all.  
  
She didn’t reply, unable to close her eyes out of fear, now sobbing so badly that she shook from the strain of it, cutting herself a bit more on the blade held just a bit from her skin as she shook.  
  
“You do that anymore and you’ll split open your jugular, Granger, and not even I will be able to fix that,” he noted absently.  
  
She stopped, but for the briefest moment, he knew she contemplated actually killing herself on the knife.  
  
“I have numerous ways of disposing of your body without question, Granger, if you were wondering. So don’t think you’ll actually be causing me any trouble, doing that.”  
  
Hmm, she didn’t respond, but that clearly wasn’t her intention in that brief moment. Was she suicidal? It’d explain her masochistic tendency to rile him.  
  
“Do you want me to kill you, then?” he asked softly, dragging the flat of the blade across her skin and eliciting a shudder from her at the cold chill of metal on skin. He wouldn’t do it, even if she did want it. If anything, should she want to die, it’d be quite the problem to keep her alive.  
  
He had every intention of keeping her around and figuring out how she ticked.  
  
“Or is it,” he murmured, moving the blade a bit away. “That you have so so much to hide that you think death would be preferable?”  
  
She struggled then. _Ah yes, that would be it_ , he thought, smirking. His idea had been perfect.  
  
He stuck the ropes to the table with another sticking charm, sliding from it and pulling the iron chair around until he could sit before her, resting his chin on his hand. The knife was still clearly visible in his other hand, and she kept her eyes glued to the blade, her face completely bloodless, except for the small thin rivulet beading on her cheek and the vivid red lines on her neck dripping onto her dress and cardigan, and shaking with barely-repressed tears.  
  
“I wonder how long I can draw this out,” he said curiously, watching her with relative interest.  
  
She didn’t look up to his face, still looking at the blade, but her face went hard with anger, even as tears still dripped down her cheeks afresh. Ah, that was good. This would have been a very boring evening if all the fight had left her.  
  
“I love that, you know. That defiance. It’s absolutely riveting,” he said conversationally, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been more serious. He toyed with the blade absently, flicking it open and closed with the ease of years of practice.  
  
She seemed to realize this as well and, strangely, this only made her more angry. “I wonder if all sadists like knives, or if it’s a certain brand of your kind.”  
  
“Perhaps. We all exhibit it in different ways, really,” he mused.  
  
“I’m not a sadist, Riddle.” Ah, she caught on quick. It was fun to know she could keep up.  
  
“Oh but you are, Hermione. I saw you, that look on your face as you watched me suffer at your hands. And when I fell, you were so fucking pleased with yourself.”  
  
“Considering what you’d done to me? I was. Very much so, for a moment,” she said, but there was something else in her voice that he couldn’t identify, the strange tang of an emotion he didn’t understand.    
  
“Sadist, then,” he agreed.  
  
“No,” she said, and she sounded disappointed. “Life is easier if you don’t care. I, unfortunately, do.”  
  
He leaned forward, looking her in the eye then. She met his gaze, pained but unafraid. “Really. Are you saying you regretted your actions? Because I can tell you it didn’t look like it from my perspective in the least. It takes a lot of hate, Hermione, a great deal of hate to fuel such powerful Dark Magic. Most people can’t do such spells and remain unaffected.”  
  
“No, I don’t regret it” she said and, God, he could smell the lie, even as prettily as she dressed it in her expression and tone. She was good though, when she wanted to be.  
  
“I can tell, when you lie, Granger. You’re quite the actress though, any ordinary person would have been completely fooled,” he complimented.  
  
“You seem to think you’re quite extraordinary,” she said, looking sardonically amused.  
  
“You haven’t even seen what I’m capable of,” he purred. “But it’s still amusing, seeing you trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Any accomplished liar can tell another on sight, after all. You did for me, after all.”  
  
“Yes, as you learned rather quickly,” she said, smirking at him. “You hate it, don’t you? I’ll never fall for your bullshit facade. I know what’s underneath the rock, Riddle, and it’s nasty.”  
  
“Oh on the contrary, Hermione, I absolutely _love_ it,” he murmured, lazily sliding the flat of the blade across her cheek, dangerously close to her left eye.  
  
“You’re really sick,” she said, disgust dripping from her voice even as she side-eyed the blade.  
  
He chuckled, benign amusement curving his lips into a smile, but it wasn’t genuine. He couldn’t have made it genuine if he’d wanted to, really. It brought back so many horrid flashes. The doctors, the priests, the beatings that took him to the brink of death and back again over and over and over...  
  
“I’m only as mad as the rest of the world Granger.”  
  
“...That bothered you,” she said astutely, and she gave a wicked grin even as the blade cut into her cheek at the sudden motion. “How amusing. Does it help you sleep at night, thinking you’re sane, or that everyone’s insane ‘in their own way?’” she asked mockingly.  
  
He didn’t deign that with a response, eyes absently trailing across the smooth surface of the switchblade.  
  
Her grin didn’t let up in the slightest, blade be damned. “You can cut me up for calling it out, Riddle, but the words will never go away. Neither will the knowledge.”  
  
“Do you think I only brought you down here to cut you up?” he asked, curious.  
  
She blinked, and didn’t respond for a moment. “No, I didn’t think you came down here to cut me up.”  
  
“What then, do you think I’m going to do?”  
  
She went pale, but didn’t respond, trying to glare. She still had her fight, but fear was slowly taking over.  
  
His face went entirely blank as the realization hit him, and he immediately forcibly retracted any sense of emotion. “You thought I’d rape you,” he said slowly, his entire body going ice-cold. Of all the...oh Christ, it made sense, for her to think that. With her past.  
  
More fear. She tried to control her breathing, and wouldn’t meet his gaze anymore.    
  
He covered his mouth with his hands, sitting back in the chair. “Granger, look at me. I want you to understand this, when I say it to you.”  
  
She looked at him, fearful as she was.  
  
“I swear upon my life and upon my magic that I would never rape you. I would never consider raping you. The very thought of such an act disgusts me.”  
  
She laughed, hysterically, cold, and bitterly. “You’re a sadist. Why wouldn’t I assume you’d go after my worst fear? Considering what else you’ve been doing.”  
  
He paused. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Let’s see. Threatening me with a knife, forced Legilimency, tying me up, kidnapping me, cutting up my face and neck in disinterest, and threatening to kill me. It’s amusing, in a sick way, how have you have this one boundary and yet nothing else bothers you at all. Why is that, Riddle? Did I miss a memory in the Infirmary?”  
  
His eyes narrowed. “Even I have certain things that I will not do,” he said, entirely serious.  
  
“Oh joy,” she said sarcastically, even as he watched her visibly become stronger. The blood came back to her face, the fight overtook the fear in her eyes, and she met his gaze again. So very, very defiant.  
  
“There we go,” he murmured, patting her cheek absently, blood catching on his hands, before standing. “Back to normal.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she admitted, even as she was angry.  
  
“You, obviously. Typically your behavior is defiant, strong, in-control, prepared to snap back at a moment’s notice. It’s not as fun when you start losing that,” he explained, playing with the blade, flicking it open and shut with ease of one who’d been carrying, and using, such knives for many years.  
  
Her eyes went back to the blade, focusing on that.  
  
“It scares you, thinking I’m going to use this,” he said curiously, regarding the blade as he held it between his thumb and forefinger. “Cut you up, just like Hesseline, right?”  
  
Something snapped, a bit of magic, and as she fell off the table he realized she’d been breaking the sticking charms, and some of the ropes surrounding her loosened, but didn’t fall off.  
  
Tom was out of the chair in an instant, wand snapping into his hand and spouting off a number of binding curses. Once she’d realized she was bound again, she glared at him from her place on the floor, shouting vulgarities at him, practically snarling in her rage.  
  
His lip curled in disdain at her reaction and he crouched down, lifting the severed end of the rope in annoyance. “Now that won’t do,” he complained, “I can’t use these again now.” Shrugging, his annoyance already dripping away quickly, as most emotions did, he kicked her onto her back. She grunted out a breath, but didn’t cry out in pain. She didn’t seem to fear pain, actually.  
  
Sighing in exasperation, he set about redoubling the bindings on her as meticulously as he need bother with, considering they had about twelve full hours at most, before either would be missed. He lifted her bodily, dropping her back onto the table. He was considerably less gentle, this time, in the way he tied her. She gritted her teeth, blood dribbling down her face, but otherwise was stoic.  
  
Tom regarded her expressionlessly as he returned to the chair. “I won’t deny it, Granger, I _really_ do want to hurt right now. But there’s a difference, between myself and Hesseline, in that regard. He does such things for sexual gratification, and, he only cuts skin-deep. If you piss me off enough to have me really use this,” he said, twirling the switchblade between his fingers, “If I really used this you’d be in pieces. It would be more of a...dissection, really. I like to know how things work, you see.”  
  
“You always wanted to cut me apart, Riddle. The reasons don’t matter when the endpoint is the same. Maybe not exactly, but you do clearly get pleasure from this.”  
  
He grinned. “Sadist, yes?”  
  
She regarded him for a moment. He couldn’t help but stare, watching her expression as she seemed to analyze him with that icy intelligence of hers. “Sadomasochist, actually. Pretty sure I’m right. You enjoy my defiance, and the challenge. You aren’t working to subdue me, not really.”  
  
“You know it’s funny, really, that you enjoy picking me apart as well. But you’re right,” he agreed, “I don’t want to subdue you, then this would all end and I’d be bored again, obviously.”  
  
“Oh, the agony,” she bit out.  
  
“If I do decide to dissect you, I could probably dump your body on the edge of Hogwarts and they’d blame Hesseline, if I get bored with you,” he suggested. The likelihood of this getting boring seemed slim, though. There was so, so much more to learn about her, and he only had a year and half of easy access to figure it out. “But I don’t think I will. I have other ways of hurting you, than threatening you with death. Because death just doesn’t really scare you, does it?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t it scare me?” she asked, but it was a clear evasion. It clearly didn’t, not really.  
  
“Because you’ve faced it, repeatedly, and every single time that will to survive flares _right back up_ and you fight through it. In fact, I don’t think you care, if you die. You lack the self-worth. No, you’re driven by something else. Something that is the only reason you keep living, the only reason you keep pushing forward for survival. _And I aim to find out exactly what that is_.”  
  
“You really think highly of my determination,” she said flatly.  
  
“Yes, I do,” he agreed simply.  
  
“And yet you believe, somehow, that accepting death only comes with having little self-worth? You really know nothing, Riddle, of danger and near-death experiences.”  
  
“Oh I don’t think you know me quite as well, as you think,” he murmured. “You’re right, I don’t know death as you have seen it. But I can see it, even in how you hold yourself when nobody’s paying attention, not even you. You’re strong, in so many ways, Granger, but you’re so very, _horribly_ weak in others.”  
  
“We all have our scars, Riddle,” she said, giving a feral grin. She may have felt guilty before, but she clearly didn’t now.  
  
“Oh yes, I’m sure we’re both aware of that quite extensively, though you’ve not really seen mine. Just heard.”  
  
“And you don’t know all of mine, in sight or in knowledge.”  
  
“I’m sure I don’t yet, but I will, soon enough,” he said lightly, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a little vial. “Recognize this, Granger? I was brewing it specially just in case it might be useful, ages ago. Turns out that was sooner than I realized.”  
  
She hadn’t been struggling much before, but she did then, clearly having caught her breath again in their chat. Ah, that explained her calmly discussing. She was so very, very interesting, and calculating.  
  
He smiled. “Concerned, a bit? I think it’s time we laid a few things out in the open, don’t you, Granger?”  
  
“No no no no no,” she repeated, not pausing for breath, continuing to fight. The tears came then, quick and unstoppable, even as her face was contorted in fury. “Absolutely no one,” she said, her fury shining through her tears, “will get to spill your blood before I get my chunk of flesh from you.”  
  
“That’s all very well and good,” he said, absently looking over his nails for any bit of dirt that had managed to get underneath them. “If you get out of here intact, that is.”  
  
“I tend to survive well with a purpose. Your head on a pike sounds like a great one,” she said, despite her pallor and tears.  
  
He leaned back in the chair for a moment, rocking it dangerously, before he stood, the chair falling uselessly to the floor. “You’re beginning to bore me, Granger.”  
  
“Give me one good reason I should give a shit,” she snapped.  
  
“People who bore me don’t last very long,” he responded truthfully.  
  
She barked out a laugh, but it was slightly hysterical. “I’m so sorry, but I skipped out on tap dancing lessons and anything else even remotely entertaining very early on in life.”  
  
A slight grin lit up his face, eerily genuine in amusement. “Defiant until the end, aren’t you,” he murmured gently, stroking her cheek with his thumb. More blood on his fingers--hers. She’d made him bleed first, but now he had his moment of her blood on his hands. She shuddered, but glared right up at him. “No, I don’t think I’ll kill you. That would be too easy like this, and I have a feeling it would be much more fun if you went down fighting. Besides...you could be useful. Already a little well of information on Grindelwald, after all, aren’t you?”  
  
“Anything useful you’ll find, Riddle, will have to be pried from my cold, dead fingers.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary, _Hermione_ ,” he purred, pulling a little vial from his pocket and swishing it at her. “Thirty minutes, Granger. Wonder what I can get from you, in that time...”  
  
“Better ask the right questions, then,” she said, biting out each word with pure fury.  
  
“Oh, I intend to,” he purred, slipping the vial back into his pocket and slowly rising from the chair. Her eyes went towards his pocket, and then back to him, even as he pocketed the switchblade as well. With a flick of his hand she was flipped over once again and turned, within the ropes that writhed around her, holding her steadily in place, to sit upright upon the table with her legs dangling uselessly over the edge.  
  
She swore at the pain, and then at him in general, panic visibly increasing with each passing second.  
  
“Open up, Granger,” he smirked, grabbing her chin in his hands and forcing her jaw open. She clamped her teeth down as tight as she could, but his hand was a lot stronger than her jaw. She was going to have quite the bruise, which he’d fix later, along with the cuts and bruises from the ropes and necklace. When he was about to administer three drops of Veritaserum from the vial, she reared her head and body sideways against her bonds, sending the vial flying from his hand to shatter on the floor.  
  
She smirked at him in pure triumph, before he clucked his tongue, chiding her on her clumsiness. “Now that wasn’t very nice of you, Granger, see I’m going to all this trouble just to get a few answers when you could have simply given them to me when I asked.”  
  
“What did I say,” she said, breathless with pain but still defiant, “about you lying and blaming me for you being an obnoxious bastard?” Ah, she remembered their first confrontation rather vividly.  
  
“I could always go back into your head, would you prefer that to this method? Although I’m afraid it might have the unfortunate side-effect of a psychological breakdown on your part. Pity, that would be, you’re a smart girl and I’d rather not waste that talent. Lucky I have another vial though, isn’t it? So you’ve got a choice, Granger,” he said, crouching down and resting his arms on her knees and regarding her lazily. “You can either take the potion, or I can use Legilimency, or I can just kill you and not bother.”  
  
“No matter what choice I’ll make, you’ll pick the one that amuses or benefits you the most,” she said. “I’m not playing into your obsession with games, Riddle.”  
  
“You have a point,” he agreed. “Shall we get on with it, then?” he questioned, stepping forward even as the binding spell disappeared and she fell bonelessly from the table with nothing to support her. He kicked her over onto her back, holding her in place with his foot. She met his eyes. She was furious and still defiant, but she was looking just a bit too emotionally unstable, at least for her. She was clearly running out of energy, but he had to give her points for her continued efforts, even as she attempted to bite him when he grabbed her jaw. “Let’s try this again,” he suggested with false sweetness, holding the vial to her lips and forcing a few drops past them despite her increasingly desperate struggles. He pocketed the vial and pinched her nose until she couldn’t breathe to make her swallow. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, Granger?” he questioned absently, lifting her up and depositing her in the circle of runes in the center of the room.  
  
“Of course it was, you imbecile,” she said, clearly furious, even as she felt the dampening spells of the runic circle wash over her, dulling her magic for what time she was within the perimeter. No-one could say he wasn’t thorough after all, not after he’d seen her do wandless magic as well.  
  
He laughed at this, dragging the chair over and seating himself with kingly grace. “Hmmmm, so many questions, and so little time. Only half an hour, the clock is ticking. So Granger...why does Grindelwald want you captured alive?”  
  
She took deep breaths in and out, shaking with the effort to not answer. Finally, though, she bit out. “I have information.”  
  
“And what is that information?”  
  
She resisted again, starting to sweat with the effort. “Esoteric knowledge.”  
  
“What esoteric knowledge, specifically?” Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and she bit her lip hard enough for blood to well up and dribble down her chin. Riddle’s eyes widened. “You know, the more you resist the more it’s going to hurt you.”  
  
She didn’t even respond, her eyes trained onto the floor.  
  
“Again, Granger. What esoteric knowledge, specifically?”  
  
“About magical items.”  
  
“What magical items?”  
  
Even as the blood went down her chin, she didn’t let up, clearly using the pain as a focus point in resisting. However, the time she spent resisting was getting shorter and shorter. “A stone, a piece of cloth, and a stick of wood.”  
  
He blinked. “Well the last is obviously a wand. What magical properties does each item hold?”  
  
“No no no,” she whispered past her bit, bleeding lip. Her face was a bloody mess at this point, despite the fact the injuries were few and minor.  
  
“Come now, Granger, I would really like an answer. What magical properties does each item hold, specifically?”  
  
“The stone calls back shades, the cloth is an invisibility cloak, and the wand is more powerful than any other.”  
  
“Well,” he murmured, “That is certainly interesting.” He paused, thinking. He’d heard something similar, somewhere before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized...a cloak, a stone, a wand... “Do these specific three items have individual names?”  
  
“The Elder Wand, known as the Deathstick as well, the--”  
  
“The Deathly Hallows,” he whispered, cutting her off, even as he ignored her being forced to finish her answer. An idea floated, in the back of his mind, vague and unsteady, but still there. Something was telling him, something was telling him that beyond the importance of knowing about items that Grindelwald wanted, this was important to him. Still, he couldn’t let himself be distracted by his thoughts, not when they had a limited amount of time. “Quite the ingenious cover up for what they were, by the way, in answering. Why is Grindelwald after them?”  
  
“He wants to be the Master of Death,” she said.  
  
“What do you know,” he asked softly, “About the Deathly Hallows, that Grindelwald does not?”  
  
“Damn it, Riddle, the fate of all of Europe rests on him not knowing!” she sobbed out.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question, Granger, but here, I’ll provide you with a different one instead, for now. Did you come to Britain looking for them? Because there are other places you could have easily fled to, and the legend does, after all, originate here.”  
  
“Partially,” she said.  
  
“Why else?”  
  
“I wanted to be with my only living relatives before...”  
  
“Before what?”  
  
“Before I went hunting the Hallows,” she said, sounding very defeated and resigned.  
  
“How sweet,” he said carelessly. “Your aunt and uncle, how quaint. Again, Granger. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows that Grindelwald does not?”  
  
Her struggles had never ceased, before each question, but this one took the longest of them all yet, and her eyes nearly rolled back into her head as she struggled, before she bit out, “Being the Master of Death doesn’t make you immortal.”  
  
“And how did you discover this?” he asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.  
  
“We got a copy of some records from the stepson of the original holder of the Elder Wand, and he discussed his father’s research. And I found several other documents while evading Grindelwald, all pointing to this answer.”  
  
Now that, that was telling. She’d managed to evade a Dark Lord and all beneath his command across Germany, and probably numerous other countries, in search of every last scrap of information she could find before fleeing the country, perhaps with intention never to return. Did she intend to master them herself and face Grindelwald? How very, very interesting. “Who was the original holder of the Elder Wand?”  
  
“Antioch Peverell.”  
  
“Do you know, then, who has it now?”  
  
She laughed, unexpectedly, but it was cold and bitter. “I do.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Gellert Grindelwald.”  
  
His eyebrows shot up. “Well. That explains a few things.”  
  
She didn’t answer, but looked haunted. He remembered that she’d been on the end of that wand, and possibly even cursed at by it. And how she intended to get it from Grindelwald for whatever purposes she had was still quite the myst  
  
“How do you intend to get the Elder Wand from Grindelwald?”  
  
“I don’t, but he can’t do much without the other two.”  
  
“So you’re just going to leave the wand with him?” he asked, surprised.  
  
She glared at him. “I’ve tried dueling him, and nearly died a few times for my efforts. I don’t think it’s feasible that I’ll be able to get it.”  
  
“You duelled Grindelwald,” he said flatly.  
  
“Yes,” she said and she sounded ashamed.  
  
“Why so ashamed, Hermione?”  
  
“I had to retreat every time.”  
  
“Well he is a Dark Lord and you were only what, fifteen? Sixteen?”  
  
“Both,” she said flatly. “At different times.”  
  
“The fact still remains that you’re still a teenager. You’re still growing into your magic. There is a good chance that with skilled you are now, you would certainly be able to take him on once you reach adulthood. I mean honestly, how many people do you think can say they’ve fought a Dark Wizard head-on and lived to talk about it, repeatedly?”  
  
“Not many. Though I also had to face his men as well. He never walks alone.”  
  
“Is there anything else you know about the Deathly Hallows, that Grindelwald does not?” he asked, changing his line of questioning back to the original, tucking that new little tidbit of information away to consider later.  
  
“Yes,” she bit out, after struggling for a few moments. She’d been collecting her energy again.  
  
“What else do you know about the Deathly Hallows, Hermione,” he questioned, his voice low.  
  
“All of the items were made using Old Magic, as well as Dark magic,” she bit out, and it seemed, with that, her struggle lessened by the smallest margin, but still continued.  
  
“What else, specifically, Hermione?” he goaded, though that tidbit had been interesting. Old Magic was rather rare--being unaffiliated with dark or light, it was simply pure power. To be used with Dark magic as well, the items were probably more powerful than even met the eye.  
  
“Being the Master of Death doesn’t make you immortal but, instead, allows you the capacity to raise an army of the dead.”  
  
“Well. Now that’s certainly something I don’t want Grindelwald to get his hands on,” he mused. “There is more, isn’t there? What else do you know about the Hallows?”  
  
“The dead aren’t just Inferi, but would be lifelike, except controllable by whoever holds all three hallows.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
It was a wonder she could still struggle, really.  
  
“Come now Hermione, we don’t have all night. What else?”  
  
“I know where the Resurrection Stone is,” she said, and two loud, painful sobs escaped her.  
  
“Oh?” he whispered, before raising his voice, “Well then, where is it?”  
  
“Britain,” she stated.  
  
“How close?”  
  
“Close.”  
  
“I do apologize, Granger, I should have specified. Exactly how far away is it within a distance of miles?”  
  
“Not even a mile,” she barely whispered, tears coming heavily now.  
  
“Well now that is interesting. Where, specifically, is the Resurrection Stone, Hermione?”  
  
“In a ring.”  
  
He paused, falling silent for a moment, calculating. It had to be within Hogwarts. No wonder she’d come here, he thought. “Do you know where the ring is?” he asked, his voice soft. She was rocking back and forth in her restraints now, and he was surprised at how heavily she was resisting now, compared to moments before. _Keep going like that and you’ll bite through your tongue_ , he thought, but didn’t say. It wouldn’t do, to give her any ideas. “Do you know where the ring is,” he repeated. He had an idea, floating in the back of his mind, but it wasn’t quite tangible enough to grasp.  
  
“Yes,” she said, almost unintelligible through her tears.  
  
“Is it within Hogwarts?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“How far, Hermione, from where we are now?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Not far.”  
  
“How far would you say it is, in terms of meters or miles?”  
  
“Less than a meter.”  
  
His eyes widened considerably. “Is it on your person?”  
  
“Damn it, no!”  
  
Riddle frowned absently, fiddling with his ring--his ring. His motions ceased, and he held his hand up, looking over the ring, turning it so the stone faced him properly. “Well,” he murmured. Now this was bad. His ring. _His ring held the Resurrection Stone_. The very same stone that carried a piece of him, safe within itself. Or perhaps, not so safe. He felt himself go a bit pale, as he examined the stone.  
  
She’d stopped sobbing now, but looked like she was trying to huddle in on herself as best she could, with what little movement she had in her restraints. He cast a wandless tempus charm., trying to keep calm  
  
“Seven minutes in, Granger. Twenty-three more to go. Did you know I had the ring, before you came to Hogwarts?” If she had, then he was in a lot more danger than he’d expected.  
  
“No,” she said. She didn’t struggle getting that answer out.  
  
“How did you find out?”  
  
“When you slammed me against the bookcase, I got a close look at the stone. It has the sign of the Deathly Hallows in it and, even under all the dark magic, it reeks of Old Magic”  
  
“No wonder,” he murmured. “What are you planning to do about the fact that I am in possession of the Resurrection Stone?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she said.  
  
“You have no idea? Not planning to take it from me, are you?”  
  
“No,” she said.  
  
“Not even the smallest bit of a plan, or consideration?” he raised an eyebrow. How unlike her.  
  
“I had plans,” she bit out.  
  
“What were they?”  
  
“Get them and take them away, before I knew. Watching over you and the ring, secondly. Stealing it from you, thirdly. Killing you and taking it off your corpse being the last plan.”  
  
“Well that wouldn’t work, it would have killed you if you’d tried to touch it,” he said absently before he could stop himself.  
  
“Most likely,” she said, but her voice betrayed her. She thought she could unravel the family curses on it.  
  
He chuckled. “This ring is steeped in so much dark magic that if even Dumbledore touched it, Granger, his arm would shrivel up and the combined curses would kill him within fifteen minutes, Dark Lord or not.”  
  
“Dark Lords are usually so arrogant about their own magical prowess that they don’t think anything can outsmart them.”  
  
“It’s not my own magical protection,” he said, “Now back to questions, Granger. How does the stone work?”  
  
“You turn it three times.”  
  
“That’s it?”  
  
“For all I know.”  
  
He frowned slightly. “Huh. Perhaps it’s time to move on to another line of questioning,” he murmured. “What’s your second worst fear, Granger?” He wouldn’t dare touch on the first.  
  
She shook her head back and forth desperately, her short hair whipping about her head. Clearly she’d bit her tongue and lip too much.  
  
“That looks like it hurt, Granger,” he noted dully.  
  
“That’s the point,” she said, but, eventually, she stopped.  
  
He slowly rose from his seat, stepping forward and reaching into the circle, hauling her partially out by the lapel of her dress. It wouldn’t allow her access to her magic, as long as the majority of her was within it, but it was enough for him to cast a healing spell, mending her tongue and lip before pushing her back in. “We can do this all night, if we have to. What’s your second worst fear?”  
  
“Yeah, this game has escalated quickly,” she said, giving a humorless smile. He nodded in agreement, waiting for her response. “Grindlewald getting all of the Hallows.”  
  
“Third worst?”  
  
“Being captured by Grindlewald.”  
  
This was going nowhere. He sighed, frowning slightly. “What are the five things you treasure most in this world, in descending order?” She clamped her mouth shut, again. Now, there we go. He leaned forward, clasping his hands loosely between his knees, and repeated the question. Tears coursed down her face in rivulets.  
  
“My uncle, my aunt, my grandfather, Crookshanks, and the Peverell stepson’s manuscript.”  
  
“What are the next five things, in descending order, that you treasure most?”  
  
“Another document written by a close friend of the Peverell brothers, the picture of my family, my beaded bag, and the wands I stole from the people I disarmed or killed.”  
  
“Who have you killed, Hermione?” he asked, eyes locking to hers. So they’d both committed the sin of murder.  
  
“Four of the Hallowed Guard. At least five other foot soldiers, but possibly one more, I don’t know for certain.”  
  
“Who is the last one?”  
  
“Just a soldier. I knocked him off a roof, but I don’t know if he died,” she said  
  
“Hm. Have you ever enjoyed causing pain, Hermione?”  
  
“Yes,” she said.  
  
“When?”  
  
“Yesterday. Another time when someone claiming to be helping me tried to rape me for a second time, and I knocked him out--”  
  
“Stop. Why, beyond the fact that I hurt you before?” he asked, cutting her off.  
  
She was biting her lip, again.  
  
“Don’t bite your lip, or I’ll come over there and make you stop.”  
  
That didn’t deter her in the slightest.  
  
Tom rose from the chair suddenly, reaching into the circle and grasping her jaw sharply. She gave a small sob, as once again he forced her mouth open. As soon as he let go, though, she did it again, clearly down to just annoying him now. “We can do this all day, Granger,” he said lazily, “I still have a nearly-full vial of veritaserum at my disposal. Why, beyond the fact that I hurt you before, did you enjoy causing me pain?”  
  
“Dose me again and you’ll most likely drive me insane, and then you’ll get nothing,”  
  
He ignored her, repeating the question.  
  
“Fear,” she said, finally.  
  
“What about fear?”  
  
She was doing it again. Did she enjoy irritating him? She had to. There was no other explanation.    
  
“ _What about fear, Granger_?”  
  
“Oh please, you obnoxious, egotistical bastard,” she said through the blood at her mouth. “You act like you don’t know the answer.”  
  
“I want to hear you say it,” he said calmly. “What about fear, Granger?”  
  
“I’m afraid,” she said, after a few moments of fighting.  
  
“Fifteen minutes, Granger. What are you afraid of, that caused you to hurt me and enjoy it?”  
  
“You,” she said. It had to be the most sarcastic, obnoxious admission of fear he’d ever heard.  
  
“There we go, that wasn’t so hard was it?” he asked, but there was no amusement in his words. That was not very satisfying.    
  
“Sort of,” she answered at the rhetorical question.  
  
“Where have you hidden the blood you took?”  
  
“In Hogwarts,” she said, stalling him.  
  
“Where specifically within Hogwarts?”  
  
“My room,” she said.  
  
“And where, specifically, in your room, Hermione?”  
  
“In my desk,” she said  
  
“What protection spells are on your desk and how can I get past them?”  
  
“There’s no protection spells on my desk.”  
  
“Is there anything preventing me from simply walking into your room and taking it?” he asked, mildly amused.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She listed off spell after spell, to his growing amusement, half of which he’d never heard of.  
  
“Alright, that’s enough. If I cast imperio on you and forced you to retrieve the vial for me, is there anything that would be preventing it from falling into my hands?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I placed a spell on my bag that prevents me from opening it when I’ve been placed under a control curse.”  
  
“Well that’s an awfully heavy bit of magic then, isn’t it,” he murmured. “God, you’re so fucking smart,” he said, almost in awe. Shit, but this left him absolutely no options, beside her death. But he didn’t want that, it would ruin everything, and beyond that something hurt, inside him, at the thought. Still, it was the only option that remained, to preserve himself. Or was it? “With me now aware of this, what do you think I’m going to do?”  
  
“Kill me,” she said.  
  
“Wrong again,” he stated, rising from his seat. “What would be the best way to extract an unbreakable vow from you, Granger?” he questioned, his voice deceptively gentle as he crouched down opposite her, just out of range of the circle.  
  
“Well, a traditional Unbreakable Vow cannot be made under Imperio, as can none of the other traditional swears against one’s life or magic,” she said. “So there is no easy way.”  
  
“What could I do, then, Hermione, to get you to give one willingly?”  
  
“What are the terms of the vow?”  
  
“What terms would you be most likely to accept?”  
  
“Do not hurt or kill me and not to take this information to Grindelwald,” she said immediately. “Pledge yourself to my safety and well-being.”  
  
He snorted. “Like I ever would share that information with him. It seems we are at a standstill, Granger. I’ll give you three minutes, Granger. Think of a vow you are willing to accept that I, too, would be capable of agreeing to.”  
  
She took every last second of that allotted time, before responding. “The vow should go as follows: I vow that I will not kill you if you swear not to ever attempt or conspire to take my life ever again, or attempt to cause me physical harm, regardless of whether you succeed. Alongside this, you will pledge yourself to my safety, especially from Gellert Grindelwald, Hesseline, and yourself.” Before he could interject, she continued, “In return I will vow to protect you to the best of my capability to protect you from Gellert Grindelwald and the like and prevent the information we both share from falling into his hands.”  
  
He snorted. “Why should I protect you from Grindelwald and his Guard?”  
  
“If you don’t and this information falls into his hands, do you really think you can take him on personally along with the forty dark wizards of his Hallowed Guard who will come after you, if he learns of your ring, let alone of the fact that he has a second, growing rival here in Britain?” she answered with complete honesty, unrestrained.  
  
That was a good point, unfortunately. He thought it over, for a bit, turning it over in his head. “I will, if you agree to the same terms you gave me. Do you accept?”  
  
Her eyes narrowed, but he could see that wonderful mind of hers working furiously behind them. As exhausted, emotionally and mentally, as she was, she was still quick on her feet. “I will agree to make this vow,” she said finally.  
  
“Good. And, with that out of the way, what else to ask,” he mused absently. He was pretty cheerful at the prospect of this possibly homicidal game becoming less dangerous, even if it did limit his options significantly. He’d have his fun here, though. “What’s the worst possible question I could ask you, Granger?”  
  
“Where do I live when not at Hogwarts,” she admitted coldly.  
  
“What is your aunt and uncle’s exact home address?” he asked, smiling.  
  
She gave it to him, each word ripped from her mouth like he’d forced them from her like teeth.  
  
“Now what’s the next most hurtful question I could ask you, Granger?”  
  
“Where are your scars located,” she admitted again, a look of complete horror overtaking her even as the words left her.  
  
He raised his eyebrows. “No wonder you’ve been so pissed at me for picking at that,” he chuckled. “Well then, Hermione. Where’s the one worst scar of the lot?”  
  
She burst into horrible, anguished sobs unexpectedly, choking on them as they slammed through her, barely able to breathe. “Inside, where Hesseline raped me with the knife.”  
  
He felt the blood drain from his face, distantly, as it crashed down upon him as if the entire castle had collapsed about his ears and for a moment the onset of unconsciousness threatened. Slowly, he rose from his seat and left the room, dropping down to the floor the moment he’d closed the door and leaning against the wall just beyond.  
  
The whole time. The whole fucking time, and him threatening her with the knife and--  
  
He felt sick. Sick in a deeper, more hideous way than he’d ever felt in the onset of any illness. It was like it had settled in his bones, that feeling of complete wrongness about it all and h _e had played on it without even realizing_ and _how fucking stupid could he have been, not to think_...the other girls. He thought of Myrtle, that annoying chit who’d liked him, but hadn’t deserved anything like that.  Following him about the halls between classes, begging him to help tutor her in her classes, despite being a Ravenclaw with good grades, crying in the bathroom after Olive Hornby teased her. Her. That bright, desperate smile, and the way her face had been twisted in death, in the crime scene photographs, mouth opened in a soundless scream that never quite ended. All of them. From the papers, from the crime reports.  
  
He felt like throwing up, but he felt physically paralyzed, in every way, by that knowledge. What he’d just done. What he’d just done, _why she was really thinking that he would rape her._  
  
It was an hour, at the very least, before he could bring himself to re-enter the room. He’d lost a lot of time, but he’d been physically unable to pick himself up off the floor until then and honestly, at this point he just wanted the entire thing over and done with.    
  
When he came back in, the first thing he noticed was that her magic was roaring around the room. She’d managed, in his absence, to roll out of the circle and was currently working on the ropes. Her hands were free and she was standing and as soon as she saw him she sent off three wandless curses at him, stumbling into a run as she launched herself forward at him even as the curses met their mark. To his complete shock she used the momentum of it and bowled him over, immediately knocking him on his back and slamming his head against the floor as a result.  
  
Everything went dark. **  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
When he came to again, he noticed he was seated and bound, and his head was throbbing from where it had hit the stone floor. He tried to make the room focus even as he began to panic, trying to remember what was going on, but his head hurt too much, and he closed his eyes again tightly. It slowly came back to him, sluggishly, as if the memory itself didn’t wish to return.  
  
Beyond the haze he noted the feel of his own ropes as well as numerous other spells and conjured binds, and he could see that she’d placed him in the magic dampening circle. He couldn’t feel any of his three knives, hidden up his sleeves or at his ankle, and the switchblade had been removed from his pocket. Even as he raised his head, tongue curling about the inside of his mouth as he tried to recognize that distinctive taste that lingered on his teeth, Granger came into focus.  
  
She had conjured a chair for herself, and was seated across from him. “Welcome back, Riddle. How do you feel?”  
  
“Like I’ve been dosed with Veritaserum,” he said tiredly. Really, he should have seen this coming. He would have, most likely, had he not been so caught up in his own horrors, in the memories that had invaded his head upon leaving the room, and those that came after the first onslaught, far deeper and less immediate than those before. She was resourceful and sharp, and while most people couldn’t escape such binds in an hour, she was clearly no ordinary person.  
  
“Ah, good, you’re aware so I don’t have to explain,” she said, rolling her wand around in her hand. “You were right. If I want to survive, then I do have to up my game. Before we leave, I promise you that I will have multiple ways of making sure you don’t bother me ever again.”  
  
“I’m sure,” he agreed, though none of those options were good for him in the slightest.   
  
She slowly stood up, striding up to his chair and getting directly in his face, hands wrapping around either of the edges of its backing. “I don’t have a chance of magically besting you. But I _do_ have a weapon now. And I’m going to hurt you _just as badly_ as you’ve hurt me.”  
  
He couldn’t hold back a small shiver, even as he met her gaze. Merlin, he was so bloody tired, and he could not afford to be impaired at all in this situation. He was completely defenseless, and when he reached for his magic, he realized, to his horror, that even though he could grasp it, it slipped from his grip like sand through his fingers, not even taking into account the magic dampening circle.   
  
She matched his gaze with her own, her expression blank. He was slightly confused, as she’d said she’d felt guilty about what she’d done to him previously, but there was a cold, unfeeling blankness about her now; she looked as if she didn’t care at all. And then it hit him (though much more slowly than he would have preferred). At some point during the course of the previous interrogation, he’d strolled right past her breaking point. What he was seeing now, all of this, was probably how she was, trying to escape Germany, just cutting herself off enough to get through the ordeal.  
  
It would have been fascinating to study if it didn’t bode such unpleasant things in store for his immediate future.  
  
“We’ll begin this way. What is your full name, and the names of your mother and father?”  
  
“Tom Marvolo Riddle, or Thomas Gaunt in the wizarding world. My mother’s name was Merope Gaunt, and my father’s name was Tom Riddle.” He wondered why that would matter to her, all things considering.  
  
Then it dawned on him. She was looking for information on the Hallows. She was looking into his family tree to possibly find the last one.  
  
“The Gaunts, then,” she said, more to herself than him, looking thoughtful, before she turned back. “Did you inherit the ring from your mother?” It was clear that she knew of his mother’s family name, enough to recognize that the family line was known for increasingly prevalent insanity in each generation, judging by the expression she’d pegged him with.  
  
“No. I inherited it from my grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt.”  
  
“What do you know about the ring?” she asked.  
  
He stiffened. Damn, she’d made the question so broad that he couldn’t get around telling her that it was a horcrux. He tried to put up his Occlumency shields even as he answered, but it was much harder than usual.  
  
“It’s a priceless object. My family has experimented on it for generations; dark wizards can’t help but tinker with such things, after all, it’s in our nature to question limitations. It came into the line through the Peverells. I...took it...off my grandfather’s corpse after he tried to kill me...because I was a stain on the family lineage. It’s one of two heirlooms in my family, and I will never let anyone who I don’t trust lay a finger on it without the curses on it killing them--” he fought, then, a sob escaping his lips, though he could feel his barriers slowly rising.  
  
Faster than he would have expected, she came into the circle and slapped him hard across the face. The world tilted and blurred sharply before it slowly came back into focus again, his shields gone entirely. “No,” she said, stepping out of the circle, her eyes full of anger and fury. “I told you _everything_ and you are not using your Occlumency to get out of this. _What do you know about the ring, Riddle?_ ”  
  
“...I almost died after I got it, a piece of my soul split off and the only way I managed to survive was making the ring into a horcrux,” he gasped out, chest heaving as he seethed. This was bad. This was beyond bad. He was too tired to fight, he could barely make any progress as it was even with his Occlumency, before she’d hit him.  
  
He opened his eyes--when had he shut them?--and found her seated there, frozen in shock.  
  
“You made a ring that deals with souls and the dead into a _horcrux?_ ”  
  
“Yes,” he choked out.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I was dying, I had no choice and I couldn’t think, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t do _anything,_ but I could feel it on my hand and I held onto its magic. I didn’t know it was anything more than a cursed family ring. It radiated dark magic and it was the only thing I could sense. I didn’t have time.”  
  
“I’ll be amazed if that piece of your soul hasn’t been warped by the ring, considering it’d be more powerful than even your soul piece. Have you noticed anything that isn’t prototypical of a typical horcrux creation?” She sighed, and rubbed her face with her hands, even despite the tears, blood, and bruising. Her wrists were raw from struggling against the rope. “Merlin, anything to do with Dark Lords is just twenty times more complicated than with normal people.”  
  
“Yes, I can continually sense the magic in the ring and I always feel like some part of me is being crushed out,” he grated out.  
  
“Oh good. I thought it might have hurt the ring,” she said, looking a bit relieved.  
  
He closed his eyes, and took a calming breath, though it did little to aid him. Oh yes, he’d pushed past her breaking point and he was seeing the effects, right here and now. She’d cut off her empathy for him completely.  
  
“If you had living relatives, why were you at an orphanage?” she asked, breaking his haphazard thoughts.  
  
“My mother’s dead. Marvolo didn’t know. My father didn’t care. My uncle is in Azkaban and may have died there for all I care.”  
  
“He didn’t know? When did he find out you were alive?”  
  
“When I went looking for my relatives upon realizing I wasn’t alone.”  
  
“When did you go looking for them?”  
  
“Last summer.”  
  
“What happened when you showed up at the Gaunt homestead?” she asked, but he could tell she’d already guessed. She just wanted him to _verbalize_ it. _And she said she was no sadist._ Some part of him wanted to ruefully laugh, but he couldn’t, not like this.  
  
“He recognized me on sight because I look exactly like my father,” he hissed, anger managing to rise even through his pain and exhaustion, “he shouted threats and insults at me, then proceeded to cast Avada Kedavra repeatedly like an idiot, without direction. I subdued him with Legilimency, and the strain caused his heart to give out.”  
  
She frowned. “That wouldn’t make a horcrux,” she said, more to herself than him, “if he died of natural strain.” She turned back to him, and her expression was too calm for someone questioning another about murder. “Who did you kill to make your horcrux?”  
  
“My father,” he bit out, hating it even as he was forced to answer.  
  
“What happened?” she asked, meeting his gaze directly. His face went ashen. She didn’t back down in the slightest. “Well Riddle? Exactly what happened, leading up to the moment of your father’s death?”  
  
Something seemed to snap in him. He hung loosely against the myriad of ropes and spells. “I tracked down the Gaunts. My uncle was still in Azkaban at the time, but my grandfather was there. He tried to kill me the moment he saw me, shrieking about how there would be ‘no filthy half-bred whelps in this family’ if he had anything to say about it, and yelling about my mother. I got into his head,” he said with a cold, humorless laugh, “It was the first time I’d used legilimency offensively. I saw _everything_. Snapshots from throughout his whole life, and it the shock of it caused his heart to give out.” He took a sharp gasp, his entire form shaking within the chair. “I saw my mother grow up. Raped, abused, by her own family. She’d showed signs of relative magical strength when she was little but it was barely there by the time she was ten. It was the only reason he didn’t kill her right off, that he knew there was magic in there somewhere, that she wasn’t a squib. She used to run out to the bushes that dotted the treeline on the edge of the property to hide from him and her brother, and she’d watch the Riddle boy across the hill play outside with his friends. And later, he’d play there with girls he’d picked up from the village. Very fanciful, my mother was. She wanted a _loving_ relationship, something kind and passionate like what my father showed those muggle girls, for all that he changed them out like old clothes. And then Bob Ogden came from the ministry, about some silly complaint or another regarding the use of magic around muggles. It came to light from my uncle that my mother had been watching the rich muggle boy across the hill, and my grandfather lost all reason and attempted to kill her right there in front of a ministry official,” Riddle said, laughing a bit. “Got ten years in Azkaban for that, he did, right along with my uncle for fighting the official off when he tried to arrest him.”  
  
Tom shivered a bit, and something wet dripped from the tip of his chin to land on the floor. He realized that he was crying. When was the last time he had cried? First year? Second year? He could barely remember. Had it really been so long, since he’d hurt this much, and allowed it to show?  
  
He hadn’t had to give this information, but he could understand what was happening, though the realization didn’t seem as real as the horrible pounding of his head. He’d never been able to tell anyone about this, though it had been life altering and so horribly, horribly painful. With the effects of a heavy dose of veritaserum alongside that emotional pain and inability to focus, she had him pouring the contents of his heart out with a single sentence. Even as he logically knew he should stop and try to give away as little information as possible, it was pouring out in a rush, as if the single act of opening the unavoidable opportunity to speak of it had opened the floodgates. And he hated her, despite it all, for knowing, just as she probably did him for knowing her worst secrets.  
  
“So of course suddenly she was alone, and suddenly she was free. Her magic started to recover, I assume, because she decided she wanted that bit of happiness that she’d seen the boy across the hill give to those girls. She wasn’t very pretty, my mother. She was ordinary at best. Gray. Boring. So she brewed a love potion: amortentia, most likely. It was the only thing she was good at, the only teaching she’d really been given aside from household tasks, and she was bloody brilliant at it. It couldn’t have been hard to slip it to him. And she kept slipping it to him, for a full year before she got fanciful again, getting some silly notion into her head that she wanted him to love her for real, her and the baby they were going to have. I saw that in my father’s head, of course, when I went right across the hill to see him. I wasn’t even going to go talk to him...I just wanted to look, see what he was like...” a choked sob escaped him, and the next words came rushing out faster than the previous. “But he came to the door, saw me as he went to pick up the paper. It was like looking at a fucking doppelganger,” he said bitterly, “It was like looking at a fucking doppelganger, and he ran right back into the house. A few minutes later, I was invited in to dinner by my grandparents. They asked me what I wanted...money? Did I want money? They’d pay me to shut up about what happened with that Gaunt _slut_ from across the way, if they had to. I didn’t want money though. I just wanted to know why...they’d known about me, _he’d_ known about me and they just left me there,” he sobbed, “they just left me there just like Dumbledore did, knowing what conditions I was living in, not caring. They donated to a different orphanage every year on New Year’s though, like good, _Christian_ people would do.”  
  
He wasn’t looking at her, not able to see her expression through his tears anyway. He didn’t want to see her unfeeling expression, not right now, when he was breaking and the mask crumbled away to reveal what he was really like, beneath it all...something he’d never shown anyone more than a glimpse of, really, before this moment. He had a feeling she was so hurt and angry that it wouldn’t matter to her at all, as it was.  
  
“It wasn’t hard to believe really, that they’d done it, with the way they were looking at me: like I was a fly they wanted to swat away. But my father, he was wary. He was scared of me, scared I’d be ‘magic’ like her, though he’d never told anyone that. He told me to get out. ‘Never come back, after this.’ Just...disappear, whatever way I had to. If I wanted money, it would be from his parents, he wasn’t giving me a dime. I didn’t want their fucking money, I just wanted to know why they didn’t want me, and he _told me._ Not that it needed to be said really, he was enslaved to an unstable woman for a year of his life, and I was the perfect reminder of something he never, never wanted to remember. But I saw it, in his head, across the table. She’d come back, once. She’d had to sell every last heirloom they owned, not that there were many, just to stay alive because she couldn’t support herself any other way. She’d held on to them for as long as she could, prostituted herself while she still didn’t look pregnant because they were the last things she had left in the world to care about anymore. But she came back eight months in, begged for anything at all, money, food, a warm place to sleep. He left her out on the doorstep for a full night in the cold before they called the police to kick her off the property. It’s probably why I was born prematurely...because she got sick within a day or two. I don’t know how she managed to make it to London. But she did, and she bled out in the sitting room at the orphanage on New Year’s morning.”  
  
Riddle clenched his eyes shut, shuddering as hot tears dripped down his face. He burned with the anger from that memory, even as it hurt. “I was _furious._ I was _beyond_ furious, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t hear anything at all. I just...snapped, and within seconds they were dead on the floor, and my soul was splitting and I was dying, I was dying _again_.” He collapsed then, dead silent save for the slightest tremors, his answer given. He felt like everything had been squeezed out of him and that he was left, a husk of what ‘Tom Riddle’ was. His masks were long since shattered, and the only thing that was left in their wake was him. Himself, his thoughts, and the memories that he hid, forcing their way to the forefront of his mind.  
  
It had all poured out in a whirlwind of repressed agony, hate, bitterness, all of it, and he was left gasping in air in the aftermath. Suddenly it hurt, it hurt so much that any further words died, and he fell into stony silence at the taste of salt on his lips.  
  
There was silence for a while, and when he finally could look up, she was staring at him. Her expression was torn, in a way. But it wasn’t pity. It was more like surprise. She must have noticed the question behind his gaze. “I didn’t think you were human, and capable of that much emotion.”  
  
He laughed coldly, and a bit of blood spattered over his chin from where he’d bitten his bottom lip, trying to prevent himself from speaking of his horcrux. So he was human again, to her? How quaint, though it might be useful to him at this point. “Thought I was heartless, did you? That I don’t want some of the same things that everyone else does?” He wondered what reason she’d conjured up in her head, when he’d left for an hour. Clearly she hadn’t assumed it to be due to pain.  
  
“I had no reason to believe otherwise. I think I like you better when you’re just a monster in my eyes,” she said softly, looking away from him.  
  
“Easier that way, isn’t it?” he said quietly.  
  
“When you don’t care? Yes.” That again. He wondered if she tried to kill her emotions, because she seemed to detest them. He couldn’t understand why anyone would try to kill everything they felt--though he felt so little in comparison, perhaps he couldn’t conceptualize it. Maybe he could when he could _think_ again.  
  
“Even Grindelwald is human, Granger, despite the atrocities. I am no different.”  
  
“He isn’t human. Not to me. I can’t afford for him to be human to me. I can’t really afford for you to be human to me either, considering you'd probably just use it to try to hurt me further.”  
  
He didn’t contest this in the least, considering that it was probably true. Instead, he allowed the silence to rest even as he gathered himself yet again, forcing down the tears and the pain into some dark, quiet recess of his mind until his face was once again calm.  
  
“I think we’re done on that route of questioning.”  
  
He relaxed at this last remark. What could she possibly throw at him that could be any worse than what she’d just managed to glean?  
  
“Why did it bother you, what Hesseline did to me? I know you don’t care if I’m hurt,” she said. His relaxation had been a mistake, he thought as he went rigid again.  
  
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before answering. The words flowed from his lips, smooth as butter, but painful as if his mouth was full of tacks. “My mother was raped repeatedly since she was old enough for my grandfather to recognize she looked more like her mother than she looked like him. Eventually she took that logic of ‘take what I want’ and applied it to my father. I am a child of rape. The entire concept sickens me.” Thank goodness he managed to keep himself from saying anything further, twisting the words that were trying to force their way out into something less dangerous, less vicious. He breathed heavily as he glared at her.  
  
“Selfishness runs in your family on both sides, then,” she stated, seeming to be turning over what he’d said in her head and coming to whatever conclusions she would. He was becoming less and less capable of hiding what he was feeling; the ordeals he’d dealt with recently were starting to take their toll on him.  
  
It went quiet for a while, and his focus drifted away from her for a bit, tired and his head pounding from the fall he’d taken. However, when he glanced back, her unfeeling face had cracked and replaced by one of simmering anger.  
  
He drooped in his bonds, too exhausted to feel like he could handle the brunt of her rage yet again. In this situation he couldn’t get out, regardless of what he did. His magic was only partially recovered as it was, and try as he might he could tell in the nature of her spells, they were too strong for him in his current state.  
  
“Why am I so fascinating to you?” she asked, laying out each word carefully as if she were trying to keep her calm. “You’ve done nothing since I’ve arrived except attempt to extract everything you can out of me.”  
  
“You’re far beyond the level of anyone else I’ve ever faced. Dumbledore isn’t a challenge, and you aren’t either, in that same sense. You’re _strong,_ in every level that matters, and looking at your desperation every day is like seeing what I’m like beneath all the politeness and pleasantries.” Even as he felt the words come to his lips, he closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Oh God, this was not the answer he’d meant nor expected.  
  
“I could have lived my entire life completely happy that I haven’t impressed you,” she said dryly.  
  
He gave a small snort of brief, bitter amusement at this, though it was false. He was still reeling a bit from what he’d said previously.  
  
It was silent for a few more moments, and he watched in dull fascination as it grew, her anger, like a fire slowly rising. “I don’t understand,” she said finally, and there was such feeling in her voice as she whispered, “If we’re supposedly similar, as you’ve kept implying during our brief acquaintance, _how can you not fucking care about what you’re doing to me?_ ”  
  
“I do, though, I’m just better at hiding it,” he answered, trying to pull it back in before the words forced their way out.   
  
“If you do, though, then why do you hurt me?”  
  
“Be--” He fought it, as best he could, even as a horrified look took over his face as he realized the words forming in his mind, waiting on the tip of his tongue.   
  
“Why do you hurt me, Riddle, if we’re so similar?” she asked again, and her anger seemed to be growing by the moment.  
  
“Because it’s like hurting myself,” he choked.   
  
She stared at him for a moment, a look of pure, unaffected confusion on her face. But then her facial expression went from hotly angry to cold fury. “What am I to you, Riddle?”  
  
“A reflection. And not. And a challenge. An obsession. A smart girl who might be competition, or an ally. Someone else whose body tells their story for them just like mine. And so much more than that that I can’t find the words...” his tongue seemed to trip over itself as the veritaserum spurred him into an answer so complex that it came out horribly garbled and oversimplified. “I don’t know. A lot. Maybe most everything.”  
  
His own horror at his words slowly dawned upon him as they sank into the stillness beneath the hum of the wards. He’d known, to a degree, that his sudden interest in her had been one of his newest obsessions. But this... “Oh no. No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. Absolutely not. _Absolutely not, this couldn’t be happening._ What was _happening,_ he’d barely been in her presence for a full week and even that was stilted. How could this have grown so out of hand?   
  
He knew some of his weaknesses, and one of those was that it was difficult for him to stoke enough emotion about a person to form a full relationship with them. Even with Lucas it’d taken him a long while to work up the care to give in to the then young boy’s antics, though he had clung immediately to his offer of friendship. Now...now he was overwhelmed, and _he had no idea how to handle it._ There was no way this was love, it was something ugly and strong, and he simply couldn’t ignore her.   
  
The word obsession suddenly held a whole new meaning, and it scared him.  
  
He glanced up to her. Her terror was written on her face as if it had been splashed across it with blood, and her sickly pallor had gone waxen. “What can I do to make your interest go away?” Her voice was just a tad shaky.   
  
“I don’t know, I can’t stop it,” he blurted, his voice hitching slightly as the words left him.  
  
“You’re going to kill me me one day, aren’t you?” she asked, and the fire and fear in her eyes told stories of other people who had been unhealthily interested in her for different reasons, and they all wanted her dead.  
  
“No, never.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it would be like killing an extension of myself,” he responded, the words shaking and broken as they left him. “And I’m terrified of dying.”  
  
Her eyes closed, and she looked petrified, so stiff that she looked almost frozen on the spot, rigid in that chair she’d conjured up. “You’re never going to leave me alone, are you?” She sounded almost like a young girl in her fear.  
  
“I can’t for _so many_ reasons.”  
  
“More than just about protecting your information about the Hallow and your horcrux?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“When did this...” she searched for a word, and couldn’t seem to find one, or at least not one she wanted to verbalize. “When did this all start?”  
  
“Before I saw you. Your magic, when I felt it,” he responded, eyes going wide with shock at his own answer, though in some terrifying way he knew it to be true. “A person’s magic sometimes says more about them than what they present to the world. Yours was like a mosaic of pain and power and it kept pulling at me, despite my wariness. Like it wanted me to go find you and never let you go, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t dare. It was frightening.”  
  
She closed her eyes again, seeming to be searching for that calmness she sometimes descended into when she seemed like she wanted to panic. He remembered it from both the time he’d used Legilimency on her and just hours before. “Why is my magic so interesting to you? I am Gray, in a sense, and have a connection to Old Magic, but I’m only above average in power.”  
  
“I thought you were a Gray Lady at first when I felt your magic from a distance, though I know you’re not. And up close...it was strange, and it still called to mine even as it clashed. Even more strange than being a Grey Lady, as I’ve met people who are Grey before. I’m not sure what you mean by a connection to Old Magic, but I can feel it.” She was also more than above average in power, even if she was no Lady and didn’t compare to him or even Dumbledore in power levels.   
  
She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a few, short, deep breaths before she answered. “It’s complicated, and none of your business, honestly. It’s rare, but it’s not that unusual.”  
  
“...what?” Tom asked, staring at her blankly. He wished he could think more, because this was clearly important and he needed to figure out what was going on, but his head felt like it was wrapped in a thick layer of cotton. He couldn’t hold the thought for long.  
  
However, even with his inability to think as well as normal, he could tell she had no intention of answering him.  
  
She seemed to be visibly trying to calm herself down, and was failing miserably. She grew more and more angry, her face red even under the blood. When she finally opened her eyes again, having given up her fight, her eyes were like red-hot pokers pinning him to his chair.“What do you even want from me?” she asked, her terror now forming into a wall of fury.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said angrily, frustration blossoming in his chest, feeding him false energy.  
  
She was shaking with rage, and he wasn’t surprised when another ball of magic hit him square in the chest. He moaned in pain, and she stopped the chair from falling with her foot, slamming down on the edge of it between his legs (he shouted at the danger of this, which she totally ignored) and grabbing the front of his shirt. She dragged him close, getting right in his face.  
  
“This _will end_ , Riddle. Come hell fire or hell freezing. I’m not putting up with your shit for the rest of my life. You better work fucking hard in getting over this because I’m not having it. I’ve challenged Grindlewald openly _to his face_ and crossed through two warzones and I’m not about to be fucking swindled out of my temporary peace by a twisted son of a bitch who doesn’t have any impulse control. Do you understand me? Am I perfectly clear?”  
  
“Yes,” he growled, teeth grating as he willed her silently to _move her fucking foot away_.  
  
“Good,” she snarled back, and threw him and the chair back to fall onto the floor. The fall reverberated through his whole body, and he hissed in anger and pain, a vague curse layering beneath the noise even as his vision momentarily went gray, and he nearly passed out.  
  
“Who are the people care you care about?” she hissed above him, not having left the circle to loom over him. He paled, clamping his mouth shut. He closed his eyes, breath coming in sharp pulls as he fought it, but it was so _hard_ with everything else.  
  
“Again. Riddle, who do you care about?”  
  
“.......” He bit down on his lip, desperate to force his way out of the question. Focus on the pain, focus on nothing but the pain. His mind was calm, quiet. Untouchable. Slowly, he closed his eyes, breathing in, out, in, out--there was a sharp bite of pain as she kicked him in the side, and his barriers fell again.  
  
“You keep trying to do that, so I’m going to make this clear now. Try it one more time, and I’ll break into your mind and tear down your defenses myself. I think you know how dangerous it is to have a fledgling legilimens in your head. And, quite frankly, should you go more insane than you already are then I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”  
  
He could taste the blood pooling in his mouth from biting his lip. His eyes watered, his body quickly beginning to rebel as he clamped his mouth shut, refusing to allow the words out. He was fighting against it with everything he had, but when she kicked him again something deeper, something that had been holding out against the potion, crumpled and fell away. “My closest friend,” he bit out, “All the other Hufflepuff students, especially the first and second years. Those who are loyal to me, and the cause I support,” he said, managing to twist the words to some degree, rather than naming names.  
  
“And who is your closest friend, Riddle?”  
  
A coldness descended over him, as suddenly his mind was filled with the knowledge that she could do _anything_ with this information. “...Lucas.,” he hissed, “I swear if you touch a single fucking hair on his head I’ll tear you to shreds--”  
  
“I have no intention of hurting them, Riddle. Unlike you, I don’t hurt the innocent. But I will have some insurance from your machinations. And you will tell me.”  
  
“Why should I trust you on your word?” he growled, eyes narrowed to bare slits. “You have no reason to comply.”  
  
“I swear on my magic that I won’t harm them if they don’t harm me. But if need be, I will reveal everything that I’ve learned today, and more. I know what you’re doing with this little ‘study group’ of yours, and quite frankly I’d feel no pity whatsoever to destroy your little posse. What is Lucas’s surname?”  
  
There was some relief there at her saying that, but not much. “Abbott.” He closed his eyes. Dangerous, dangerous information, even if she promised not to harm him. He couldn’t keep them all from her forever, eventually they would talk. He was going to have to do much more than simply watch her now.  
  
“What is something that you would rather have Lucas Abbott not know?”  
  
“That I’m more than just ‘Dark’,” he whispered, blood trickling from the corner of his lip where he’d bit it, trying to fight the effects of the potion by incurring pain upon himself. “That madness runs in my family.”  
  
Her stare was cold, and he wondered, briefly, if it’d seemed the same when their positions had been switched. “There are others who are loyal to you. Who are the top five?”  
  
“Peters. Longbottom. Prince. Baginold. Haldon,” he said, managing to omit their first names.  
  
“What is Peter’s first name?””  
  
No, no no this was all wrong, he couldn’t. Not them. “...Cathy.” _A bright smile and crooked teeth as she leaned down and coaxed him from under the table, where he’d been hiding from the Slytherins. “Come on now, it’s safe. They’re not touchin’ a hair on your little head with me ‘round. See this badge? This means I’m Head Girl.”_  
  
He had never felt so stupid in his life. He’d endangered them all by his momentary carelessness. Now she had power over him, and she had no problems wielding it whatsoever.  
  
“Longbottom’s first name?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.  
  
“Gilbert.” _Booming laughter. He always laughed at everything, except when he was learning curses, hexes, anything he could use in a fight. Then he was dead serious, his mouth downturned in a heavy frown as he concentrated. Always so very, very dedicated. “I’ve got to know both sides, right, if I’m going to be an Auror? So what can you tell me about the Dark Arts, Tom? I know you’ve been practicing.”_  
  
“Prince’s first name?”  
  
“Eileen.” _“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you, oh goodness all those books on the floor--” Silly, mousy little thing, with her black hair pulled back in a tight braid, the least liked Ravenclaw of their year. But she was quick-witted beneath her quiet, demure exterior, and what she lacked in looks she made up for in keen, vicious intellect and an incredible knowledge of potions._  
  
“Baginold’s first name?”  
  
“Bertrand.” _Tall, strong-rooted. Always grinning. He didn’t need a wand to intimidate, but he wouldn’t lift a finger unless it was to protect. “You’re doing good, Riddle; you’ve got the whole school under your thumb and the firsties actually listen to you. I can’t even get them to go to sleep at the right hour, let alone eat their god-damned vegetables! Miracle worker, you are.”_  
  
“Haldon’s first name?”  
  
“Adam.” _The short, stocky Gryffindor that somehow had made it into the house of lions even as he seemed to completely fade into the background. He always pretended like being ignored didn’t bother him, but when you engaged him in a one-on-one conversation, you could see the shine of happiness in his eyes. He was wary, Adam, as sneaky as a Slytherin, but there was just something about him, something that said he had that potential, to be great. “When nobody notices you, you hear a lot of things that you really shouldn’t, you know...and sometimes, sometimes you just have to act on them. And you’re the one Longbottom talks to about Grindelwald, aren’t you? I’ve heard a few things...”_  
  
“What is something you would not want these allies of yours to know?”  
  
He glared at her head-on even as the words fell from his lips. “That I’m a parselmo--” he clamped down his teeth, forcing his mouth to remain shut. The thought of how they would react was what stopped his words, giving him strength, even more so than not wanting her to know.  
  
Hermione stared at him for a time, before she asked, her voice low and soft,“Are you a parselmouth?”  
  
“--Yes.” In some horrible way he was relieved that a new, specific question had arisen and prevented him from answering her further about his allies.  
  
“Is your ability inherited or natural born?” she said, in reference to the fact that some very dark wizards spontaneously were born with that or similar gifts.  
  
“Inherited.”  
  
Her carefully impassive expression changed to one of mild surprise. “I didn’t expect that.” He could practically see her mind working overtime, even behind her expression, which quickly became guarded again. “Are the Gaunts descendants of Slytherin?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
This answer didn’t seem to stop her thoughts. If anything, they seemed to be threatening to break her mask. “So, are we in the Chamber of Secrets?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Where are we, then?”  
  
“Catacombs, connected to it.”  
  
The mask broke and she looked completely frustrated, afraid, and somehow both older and younger than her actual age. “You have the most wonderful ideas,” she bit out at him, as she collected herself back to what seemed to be her primary safe emotion--anger. “What is the monster in the Chamber of Secrets?”  
  
“A basilisk.”  
  
“So your plan, this whole time, was to interrogate me and then leave me to the basilisk?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What were your plans in bringing me down here, then?”  
  
“Interrogation. Find out what I could, and then bring you back up. Possibly obliviation but I doubted your mind would hold if I did as much, so I decided not to.”  
  
“Are you still intending to take me back up?”  
  
“...Yes.”  
  
She looked surprised, but she covered it up quickly. She did a wandless but verbal tempus spell, revealing the time. He had only been under the questioning for about ten minutes. Fuck.  
  
“Twenty more minutes to go, Riddle, and I don’t plan to leave,” she said, going back to her chair and sitting down.  
  
He stared at her impassively, waiting for her to get on with it. In some ways this was far worse than the blood magic, and he just wanted to weather through it and put it behind him as much as he could.  
  
“Why do you want to destroy Grindlewald?”  
  
“He is methodically eliminating any competition in whatever country he invades. I am competition. He kills senselessly and without care, and seems to legitimately believe that his exterminations are ‘for the greater good’. It’s all bullshit. There is no difference between purebloods and muggleborns, save that one has been ensconced in wizarding culture all their lives, and the other enters it entirely unaware. Oh, and the rampant inbreeding. But it is a pointless grasp at power that he neither needs nor will be capable of controlling, if he stretches his resources far enough. And he doesn’t care how he gets that power, even if it means using people like the Hesseline brothers or Marriot Garves. And he’ll come here, soon. He’ll come looking for power and for Dumbledore, and he’ll ruin this country far worse than the Muggle war has. He will destroy my home. My friends. Everything I care about, because they all stand in the way. And no-one is doing anything to stop him but kicking back their heels and saying ‘someone else will take care of it, though the stories in the paper are scary’. They don’t understand how close he is, how real the danger is to them.”  
  
“He will,” she agreed, and he saw in her expression how deeply aware of this she was. He knew that she’d watched her own country fall into Grindelwald's clutches. And it fell with much fanfare and celebration. She was looking at him, but not really--she was staring through him, and it was somewhat disconcerting. “People are cowards and are afraid of death, pain, and whatever else comes with fighting. But they don’t get that it’s no life to live under a shadow of fear. Fools.” Her eyes were blazing with hatred, fury, and determination.  
  
He straightened against the cold backing of the iron chair, head rising to meet her gaze. Even as tired and out of it as he was, he couldn’t look away. That fire, that beautiful, violent fire was back in full force. There was such destructive potential in that look, that spoke of times when she had truly exercised that strength and wreaked terror upon her enemies. He wanted to cultivate it. Grow it to its greatest potential, give her something real to fight.  
  
He realized where his thoughts were taking him all too quickly, and he resisted the urge to swear.   
  
She came out of her thoughts and realized he was looking at her. There was the briefest flash of fear, but then she seemed to grow even more angry. This time it was focused on him, and that wasn’t upsetting but actually rather enjoyable.  
  
“The people who are loyal to you. Are they organized?” she asked, breaking the quiet.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Is it a group that you lead?”  
  
“To a degree.”  
  
“ _Dark Lord_ ,” she muttered, sounding angry.  
  
“And this is new?”  
  
“It was an expletive, Riddle. Who else is in the group?”  
  
“Aurelious Green. Ignatius Prewett. Herbert Gagesworth. Venecia Day. Solomon Kale. Alison Bennett. Marcus Wood. Jaidev Patil. Charlus Potter. A lower network of several third and second years.”  
  
“Who are the members of the lower network of third and second years?”  
  
“Jonathan Owens. Gabby Spinnet. Abigail Harrington. Molly Tutherson. Olive Hornby.”  
  
He wondered if she could actually remember all of these names. He’d mentioned quite a few people, and she had no frames of reference to remember them by, considering she didn’t know anyone from Britain hardly. Then again, considering her ferocious intelligence, she might have an eidetic memory alongside that, much as he did. Her facial expression didn’t betray any suggestion that she was working hard to remember what he was saying.  
  
“What is the purpose of your group?”  
  
“To change the way the government treats muggleborns and half-bloods and encourage equality regardless of family name. The only way this can be done is by slowly restructuring the laws that run our society, so it must be done from the interior. Some among them are training on their own merit against the threat of Grindelwald as well.”  
  
“Do you intend to use them to try to hurt me?”  
  
“No,” he said flatly. “What purpose would that serve?”  
  
“I have no idea. You’re the one who says this is a game.”  
  
“This is between you and me, Granger. Not them.”  
  
She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “What are your rules for this ‘game’?” She said the word game with dripping sarcasm.  
  
His lips curled. Now this was a good question. “Odds must be even. You can only utilize what is at your fingertips. Outside sources are not to be called upon. You kill the other or drive them into insanity and you lose. A safe location has yet to be set but there should be neutral ground where you are not at odds.”  
  
She looked at him, saw his smirk, and snorted in disdain. “Well, then, Riddle. Have fun writing whatever rule book you want, because I’m not playing within your stupid rules that have absolutely no reason for existing.”  
  
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. That had just been a cheap, petty shot, and not a particularly powerful one considering the position of control she had over him at this point in time. It still stung viciously, but he wasn’t going to satisfy her with admitting that.  
  
“What is it like, in the orphanage?” she asked, changing tactics.  
  
He closed his eyes. He’d rather not have to talk about it. “Cold. Full of screaming, hungry children with dead eyes, all the time.”  
  
“What else did you experience in the orphanage, Riddle?” she asked, clearly not satisfied with his answer.  
  
“Being whipped,” he said shortly. He wasn’t going to give her more information than required, not about this. And nothing she didn’t already know.   
  
Her expression was carefully neutral, and he wasn’t certain what she was thinking regarding his answer, and he wished he didn’t care, but he didn’t want those memories ripped out of him again.   
  
“What kind of person do you play to be at Hogwarts? What is the mask you wear?” she asked, changing the route of questioning, to his great relief.  
  
“Polite. Helpful. Always smiling, always agreeable, always a bastion of morality and positivity. Never angry, never harsh unless it’s required.” Tom sniffed. “With the students? There has to be a few faults in there, otherwise they will not believe me ‘human’. If you are too perfect, people will notice the act.”  
  
She shook her head, looking slightly disgusted. “That has to be the most hysterical thing I’ve heard in ages. I wish I could laugh,” she said dryly. “Does anyone else know what you are really like underneath the mask, besides Dumbledore?”  
  
“Lucas knows the most. Gil and Bert know I’m Dark, as does Eileen. Some of the others know a bit.”  
  
“What is your relationship with Lucas like?” she asked,  
  
He didn’t answer. She’d have to ask a more specific question, if she wanted that one, he thought with some little amount of pleasure at her failure.   
  
“Ah, my question was too broad. My apologies, Riddle,” she said with false deference, though her mask was ruined by the fact she was seething, just a bit, under the surface. She paused for a moment, searching for words. “How did you become friends?”  
  
“...We were sorted into the same house, and when I screamed in my sleep he’d climb into my bed and curl up next to me while the others ran to get Cathy.”  
  
“Why did you reveal so much of yourself to him, the you behind the mask?”  
  
“Because I’d never had a friend before _._ And he wasn’t afraid, when he first began to realize what I was like.”  
  
“Why did you scream in your sleep?”  
  
“I had vivid nightmares.”  
  
“Not surprising,” she said, her tone dull and jaded.  
  
He frowned, at that. He knew what she was going to ask, and so did she, despite already knowing the answer. But this wasn’t just solely about getting information, and it hadn’t been for either of them.  
  
Or at least, that was what he thought. But she only paused for few seconds, trying to smooth her expression back into neutrality, before she spoke again. “What is the one thing you would least want me to know?”  
  
“.....That I’m working my way out of this rope as you speak.”  
  
The fragile mask she’d been making broke like he’d shattered it on the floor. She was out of her seat immediately, and pulled on the set of physical ropes to untie him from the chair, which he fell out of due to lack of support.. He gasped as a lance of pain split through his head, though he hadn’t hit it. It was bad. It was very bad, that even jostling was making him feel like he’d pass into unconsciousness. She grabbed him by his bound feet and pulled him towards the edge of the dampening circle. “No fucking way. Absolutely no fucking way. You’re not getting out until I _let_ you out.” She dragged half of him out and bound him further, then pushed him back in and hauled out his other half, again making sure his hands stayed within the circle.  
  
His lip curled into a sneer, angry at the fact that this damn girl was dragging him across the floor like he was a heavy sack. “Is that a challenge, Granger?”  
  
“No it’s a fucking promise, _Riddle_. Now, with this new information, what is it now that you would least like me to know about?” she asked after she’d put him back into the circle, just leaving him there haphazardly on the floor.  
  
“My second,” he said before he could stop himself.  
  
“What do you mean by ‘your second’?” she asked, the fury still heavy in her voice.  
  
“Second in command,” he gritted out.  
  
“Of your group against Grindelwald? And what’s your second’s name?”  
  
“...Lucas,” Tom grit out through clenched teeth.  
  
“You mention him quite a bit, so we’ll go down this road,” she said with a calm expression, but her vicious tone gave her away. “What do you not want me to know about Lucas?” she asked.  
  
The cut on his lip re-opened as he bit down.  
  
“ _What do you not want me to know about Lucas Abbott?”_ she repeated, glaring at him.  
  
“Everything,” he hissed back, spitting a bit of blood.   
  
“Good evasion, even if it’s only temporary. What is the nature of your relationship with Lucas Abbott?”  
  
He bit his lip again, hard. Blood filled his mouth.   
  
“You can keep doing that, and I’ll just keep healing it, Riddle. You’ve stolen every bit of information you could think to ask out of me, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do the same in turn. _Again, what is the nature of your relationship with Lucas Abbott_?”  
  
Not a word. He wasn’t giving her a single fucking word, even if it caused him to slip into unconsciousness. If anything that would be better, really, since it would prevent him from answering, and allow the veritaserum to wear off. However, he lost the fight in answering all too quickly. Damn, he was too weak for this. “He is my closest friend.”  
  
“How deeply do you care for him?” she asked, her voice seeming to betray that she had come to some mental conclusion.   
  
Shit. “I’d give my life for his.”   
  
“How deeply does Lucas Abbott care for you?”  
  
“He would do the same without question of why.”   
  
She frowned, but it was a thoughtful, shrewd expression. “Are the two of you lovers?”  
  
“No.” Good, he’d dodged that bullet.  
  
“Have you ever been lovers?” she asked.  
  
Or not. “Yes,” he bit out, glaring at her with the full force that his pained, pounding head would allow.  
  
“Why are the two of you no longer lovers?” she asked ,meeting his gaze head on in turn.  
  
“I’m not attracted to him.” It was a paltry reason, one among many, and perhaps not the true main cause, but it would do.  
  
“You used him, then? Your best friend?” she asked, disgust dripping from her voice.  
  
His eyes narrowed. “Never.”  
  
She snorted. “Good for you, your poor black heart beats occasionally.” She dragged him out enough of the circle again--he growled angrily, tired of this--enough that she could heal the wounds on his face again. _Lucas could have done so much better,_ Tom thought absently.  
  
She did another tempus charm. It was about twenty two minutes in. He only had eight minutes left. Halleigh-fucking-lujah.  
  
“Where will you live once school lets out for the summer, Riddle?”  
  
“No idea.”   
  
She blinked, a brief look of surprise flashing across her face before it faded. “Do you have any allies that would take you in?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Why not go stay with one of them?”  
  
“I can take care of myself.”   
  
She glared at him, but it was tinged with worry. “Riddle, you’re the holder of the Resurrection Stone. You need to be somewhere where your allies would know you haven’t disappeared off the map and you can have access to the wizarding world. Do you even have any idea how you’re going to protect the ring?”  
  
“If I keep moving there is less chance of being found. The fewer people know where I am the better.”  
  
“Riddle, the wizarding world in Britain is small.”  
  
“Then I will not remain in Britain.”   
  
She went completely and utterly ashen. Her hands curled into fists, and he wondered just where she was wanting to hit him--because it was painfully obvious. “Are you mad?” she started, clearly furious. “If--”   
  
“Yes.” He went completely white as the words left him.   
  
She’d been starting to say something else, and it died on her lips at his expression. “Does it hurt to have all your pretenses about your mental state ripped away?  
  
His eyes burned. “Yes,” he gasped, breath coming in quick, short gasps as dark spots began to appear before his eyes, threatening unconsciousness but he didn’t care, he didn’t care and _he wasn’t mad it was a lie how could he have said such a thing_ \--   
  
“And I got what I wanted,” she said quietly, getting up and taking a seat, rolling her wand in her hand again, watching him.  
  
He shuddered, closing his eyes and breathing heavily as he tried to fight off unconsciousness. If she was done, that only left one last thing, and he wasn’t going to drift off and go without a fight, though whether he was capable of fighting at this juncture was, at best, questionable. He coughed, blood dripping from his mouth at his split lip.    
  
She stopped, and her eyes narrowed. “Shit,” she swore. She got up from the chair and went over to him. She bent down, and looked into his eyes, brows knit in an almost nervous expression.  
  
He stared back, trying his best to focus into a glare, but his gaze slid from hers. The blood matting his hair at the back of his heat was hot and sticky and uncomfortable and he could barely think about that, or the fact that her emotionless mask had fallen by the look in her brown eyes, over the pain.   
  
“Well, aren’t you in a right state,” she said, running a hand through her short hair. She picked him up by the front, and seemed to carry him out halfway. She healed the injury at the back of his head, and he felt the blood stop flowing, and his hair was clear of it. His lip and face got the same treatment. He barely gave protest, flinching away at her touch but finding himself reeling at the slight jostling.  
  
“Well, there goes Plan A,” she said with a hint of bitter amusement aimed at herself.   
  
He didn’t respond, trying to focus on keeping his eyes open.   
  
“Okay, Riddle,” she said. She stopped, sighed, and a look of annoyance came to her face. “I’m going to heal you up soon. But I’m going to do it after I get that vow you wanted me to do earlier. Since you’re in no condition to sit up, let alone make a magical vow, it looks like I’m going to be doing it another way.”  
  
Tom opened his mouth to protest virulently, but only a quiet noise twisted by the agony that was the beating beneath his skull escaped. He shifted away, despite the pain.   
  
She dragged him out carefully the rest of the way, and the world faded in and out dangerously at the motion, but he didn’t lost consciousness.   
  
She carefully pulled up her wand, “I, Hermione Jean Granger,” she said, and her wand tip started shining an eerie dark light that he shied his eyes away from, “formally bind you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to your flesh, your blood, and your soul to my safety to the best of your ability--”  
  
He felt the blood drain from his face even as her words registered. “No, no no no don’t,” he choked, his words brittle as any last bit of control he had in hiding his emotions fell away  and he began shivering. She was in stark relief in that strange light, and she didn’t even react to his protest. An unearthly wind picked up in the room, and it grew colder and colder to the point where their breath was visible in the air.  
  
“Should you break this binding,” she continued, “I will own you, and I will take my vengeance as I see fit. In return, I vow to protect you to the best of my ability from Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore and prevent your soul from falling into his hands, as well as returning your blood. I will not kill you unless you break your binding. So mote it be.”  
  
There was a burst of cold, angry magic that seeped into the very marrows of their beings before, as quickly as it had come, it disappeared.  
  
“You bitch,” he whispered, words shaking, “you fucking bitch, that was a slave curse,” he choked out, laying his head back as carefully as he could manage without causing further harm. His vision swam as tears flooded his eyes.   
  
“And you forced me with threat of death into thinking of a vow at all. I have you to thank for this idea. I didn’t change anything in the terms of agreement that you agreed to earlier. Forgive me if I’m not sorry, Riddle, because you will not hurt me again, much less kill me.”  
  
Any further words faded out and became muffled as everything suddenly seemed to shift sideways.   


* * *

  
  
She swore when his body went limp within its restraints.   
  
She didn’t want to help, not really, but she had to, and not to just get out of here. She couldn’t go against the vow, and _she had been the one to cause his injury._ And she had vowed that she wouldn’t kill him. She doubted it would take into account “death by proxy.” Otherwise all vows on his end would be null, and Riddle could very likely get out of this by dying and coming back with his horcrux. If he failed to kill her, he could certainly get his little pet basilisk to, or his Knights, to avenge his death.   
  
In other words, she had think fast and work _now._ But she couldn’t have made a vow any less intense. The curse didn’t call for equal exchange, but if you asked for something large in magnitude, you had to promise something heavy in return.  
  
It seemed that he was somewhat conscious, as his gaze flickered hazily up to meet hers when she crouched over him, but he barely seemed aware. She had healed the head wound, but a brain injury was an entirely different matter. She knew a spell that might potentially help, but she wasn’t a healer and, quite frankly, thought he needed to be going to the infirmary where he could get real help.   
  
Looking at him now, she could see the signs, really. He’d barely recovered at all, since her retaliation. She raised her wand--her hand still shook from the slave curse she’d cast, and the amount of power it had taken from her--and cast one of the few diagnostic spells she knew. He was fine physically except for his head, which was glowing an alarming bright red to signify grave danger, and his core...his core was empty enough that he probably couldn’t have managed even a simple lumos charm.  
  
Shit. She should have seen this earlier, she shouldn’t have been so blind with her hatred. She had, within this past week, taken complete leave of her sense twice to the point that she’d put herself at a major risk. She had just assumed he’d bumped his head a bit. Then she’d also assumed that he had recovered from the blood potion’s effects. But really, it had barely even been two days, how could he have? She had been so focused on learning information to protect herself and to watch him writhe emotionally that she hadn’t seen just how dangerous the situation had been.  
  
Hermione was tired and pained too. She just wanted to sleep. She didn’t care where. The thought of her bed, not so far from where they were, was so very, very pleasant. But there were countless flights of stairs and a locked passageway. He was in no condition to take them up and get the the infirmary on his own, and it was very likely that the passage was blocked by a parseltongue password, if she were lucky. If she wasn’t, the passages were bound by Riddle’s connection to the bloodline and anyone who tried to force their way out would meet a painful end.  
  
“All right, have to make plans for how to get him out,” she mumbled to herself, her tired mind still working fast as it went over her options. Wandering around and looking for another exit was suicide, with a basilisk on the loose, and all the exits were probably locked in some form or fashion anyway.  
  
Riddle’s eyes flickered open just the barest of cracks, and he looked up at her.  
  
“I have to get you out of here,” she said flatly. “I just made a vow that I can’t kill you, and leaving you here to die probably counts.”  
  
“No...won’t make it,” he said tiredly, slowly raising his hands to his head and rubbing at his eyes, with a small sigh.  
  
She sighed. “Riddle, I’m not a healer. I know a spell that might help, but it also may not. You need to be taken care of by people who actually know what they are doing.”  
  
“Do the spell,” he said, his words slurring just barely. “I can’t get us out.”  
  
She swore. “Damn it, why do you always make everything twenty times harder?”  
  
He didn’t respond, simply leaning his head back on the floor with a small moan.  
  
She put the tip of her wand to his forehead, preparing to start the spell. He flinched at the touch, then lay perfectly still.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, and felt slightly disappointed. “This will take a few moments, and once I’m done you have to let me know how you feel.”  
  
“Okay,” he agreed weakly, closing his eyes.  
  
She began chanting in Old French. It’d been a spell hid by a French healer in the seventeenth century because he’d been embarrassed that, more often than not, he couldn’t cast it. Her tutor had found it, and had the theory that it hadn’t been the spell so much as the man’s ability. She’d made her tutor teach her, more out of curiosity than thinking she’d ever actually need to know it.  
  
As the spell progressed, blue and green tendrils of light danced across his forehead, before going towards the back of his head, where he’d hit his head. Riddle’s tense form relaxed as he let out a small breath of air, breathing almost evenly, but she didn’t pay attention as she continued. Finally, at the end, the spell lights turned red and orange, and disappeared.  
  
Riddle’s eyes flickered open halfway, and he looked up at her hazily. His pupils seemed almost normal, luckily.  
  
She knew he was doing better, but she’d ask anyway. “In comparison to before, how do you feel? Give me a pain scale.” At least, with him verbalizing it, she could check up on his progress, because she was going to be here for quite a while. They’d redo the spell in five hours. If she thought she could do it sooner, she would. However, her body was betraying her. She’d wait that long to redo it, letting herself recover. Till then, Riddle was stuck on the floor, and she would be playing nursemaid in the metal chair.  
  
“Three?” he said unsurely.  
  
“All right. A few questions, and then you can sleep for a bit. What’s your name?” She had to make sure his memory was working correctly, at least the most basic parts.  
  
“Thomas Marvolo Riddle,” he said tiredly, covering his eyes with his hands.  
  
“What is the date?”  
  
“January first. Hard to forget your birthday,” he said acerbically.  
  
“Happy birthday,” she said sarcastically.  
  
He let out a sharp, barking laugh at that, then winced.  
  
“Yeah, I hope that hurt. Where are we?”  
  
“Fuck you,” he said dully.  
  
“Riddle, answer the damn question and I won’t talk to you for an hour.”  
  
“Below Slytherin’s Common Room.”  
  
“All right, you’re cognizant. Go to sleep or whatever. I’ll check on you in an hour,” she said, standing up, and nearly fell over. Standing up made her dizzy, not to mention her legs felt like they would give out at any moment. She stumbled inelegantly back to her chair.  
  
“I think maybe you shouldn’t do that,” he said carefully, watching her with a tired, pained gaze.  
  
“Fuck you, Riddle, I nearly passed out to keep you from dying from a horrible head injury. At least keep your trap shut.”  
  
“Why thank you then,” he said patronizingly. “I so very deeply appreciate your effort. You should have just killed me.” He looked like he might have prefered it, in that moment.  
  
“Too late now. Now be quiet,” she said, taking her seat and rubbing her eyes, ignoring the blood on her face.  
  
“What if I don’t feel like being quiet,” he muttered combatively, but closed his eyes anyway and was dead to the world within seconds.  
  
“Idiot,” she muttered quietly. She put up a timer charm, and the dimly lit room had another golden light from the magical hourglass. She tried to put up a ward around herself, but she was so weak from the healing spell that it was paltry at best. She moved the chair against the wall so she could lean her head against it.  
  
As soon as she was no longer wired in keeping Riddle alive, she realized that her body was aching with exhaustion, and her magic felt like it was sputtering inside her, a candle flame being threatened by strong gusts of wind. Beyond that, she had barely slept at all over the past week and yet had just pulled two heavy castings to bind him, as well as numerous mid-level ones earlier to restrain him once he was at a disadvantage.   
  
She would have to redo the spell in about five hours. She couldn’t risk doing it any sooner, but he would need it as soon as she was able.  
  
Hermione curled in on herself, making sure she was close to the door so she could make a quick escape if necessary, dangerous though it would be to run about such a labyrinth of hallways and old passages, not to mention a basilisk standing guard. At least it upped her chances of survival some small amount, if she had an encounter with any such creature. The fact remained that even if Riddle couldn’t kill her himself, there were other things down here that easily could, and considering protecting her to “best of his ability” was probably weakly telling her to not go about doing something dangerous at this point, she was out of options.   
  
Her eyes burned and exhaustion made her limbs heavy, but she couldn’t sleep. Riddle was literally six feet from her, and he was dangerous, injured and half-dead or no. So she kept up a long vigil, staring at the magical hourglass, and meditatively keeping the heaviness in her body and trying to slowly restore her magic.  


* * *

  
An hour later, she got her sore body out of the chair and went over to Riddle. She took out her wand and, with a simple word, a horrible screech came from the tip.  
  
He yelped loudly, but the second he had moved he let out a small moan and covered his eyes, curling in upon himself as he dropped back down to the floor.  
  
“You seem pretty active,” she said acerbically. “It’s time for me to check up on you and ask questions, then you get another hour.”  
  
“Lovely,” he said tiredly, rubbing the drying blood from his chin as it pulled and flaked with each word.  
  
She sighed, annoyed. She really wished she didn’t have to do this. “What is your name?”  
  
“Tom Riddle.”  
  
“Thomas, Tom. Close enough. What is the date?”  
  
“January first, unless you woke me later than assumed,” he said, annoyed.  
  
“No, it’s only been an hour,” she said, and she couldn’t keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “Where are we?”  
  
“Slytherin’s classrooms.”  
  
“All right. I need to check your pupils. What’s your pain on a scale?” she asked, leaning down and putting the gentlest lumos she could to look at his eyes.  
  
“Four,” he said, shying away from the light.  
  
“Your eyes are fine, but the pain is getting worse,” she said, frowning. “I’m redoing the spell in four hours. Don’t die on me between now and then.”  
  
“I won’t,” he said weakly. “You should have seen the other shit I’ve survived. This is nothing.”  
  
“It’s the small things that usually kill, Riddle,” she said quietly, before standing up to go back to her seat.  
  
“Oh,” he said almost childishly, covering his eyes again. “If that’s the case then you should be sleeping.”  
  
“I’ll be fine, so sleep for the next hour,” she said, putting up another timer charm, and resumed her vigil.  
  
He didn’t respond, already asleep again.  
  
This happened consistently, and he seemed fine, but his pain was growing worse, and she wasn’t sure if that was normal. She was no healer. The only silver lining was that this worry gave her something to ponder so that she could stay awake in the dim light, despite her exhaustion.  
  
The time she woke him up the last time before she would do the spell again not with the shriek--he was getting used to that--but with a biting cold wind charm. Every time she used her magic it felt like the force of it was growing weaker, and that scared her. She wasn’t sure if Riddle would make it if she couldn’t do this at least one more time  
  
He let out a small sound of discomfort at the cold, but didn’t rise, though he did seem to wake.  
  
“You awake?” she asked, ready to do the shriek again if he wasn’t.  
  
Riddle squeezed his eyes shut, obviously in pain. “Yes,” he croaked out.  
  
“Okay, questions, pain scale, and then we’re redoing the spell.” She went over the questions, and he got them all right, thankfully.  
  
“Pain level?” she asked, doing another lumos to look at his eyes. His pupils were growing larger again.  
  
“...six,” he choked, barely moving.  
  
She resisted the urge to swear, and immediately put her wand to Riddle’s forehead. She took a deep breath, collecting herself. This was a heavy casting, and she couldn’t afford to mess it up. She concentrated as best she could, focusing all of her resources, and then began the spell. She was slightly relieved to see the green and blue spell lights heading back to Riddle’s injury, but she wouldn’t be truly relieved until they turned red and orange.  
  
He seemed to grow a bit more aware and less pained as the spell progressed, and gave a small shudder as the colors changed. Oh thank Merlin, it was working.  
  
But, as soon as they disappeared, it was like the world made a violent shift to the right. She felt cold and empty far deeper than just in her body and bones, drained in every way possible. She’d been crouching down next to Riddle, but when she was aware next, she was on her side, and she could see Riddle’s torso as he was sitting up, leaning over and patting her cheek.  
  
“Granger? Shit. Shit, shit shit shit. Come on, wake up?”  
  
She gave a weak noise, because she knew she was in no condition to fight, and he was so blurry.  
  
“Can you see me?” his voice came distantly.  
  
“You look like a painting I smeared,” she said, and her voice came out fuzzy and slurred.  
  
“Okay,” he said, “Okay, that’s not good. Alright. Granger, I’m going to lift you, can’t have you on the floor like this.”  
  
She couldn’t protest except to violently shudder at the thought.  
  
“Look, I know you don’t like it but I have to move you,” he said sharply. “So no throwing up and no fighting.”  
  
“That’s why I didn’t say anything,” she managed to get out.  
  
“Still got some bite. Okay, that’s good at least I guess,” he said, even as his blurry form crouched over her, and arms slipped beneath her back and legs, lifting her and leaning her against his shoulder carefully.  
  
She tried to be brave, she really did, but she couldn’t stop the tremors. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this defenseless. She was completely out of magic as far as she could tell, could barely keep herself focused, and Riddle was the only person between her and possibly dying.  
  
“Okay, I’ve got you, we’re going to move now, alright?” he said distantly, even as she felt him rise to stand.  
  
“M’kay,” she said, trying to focus as she was moved.  
  
Vaguely she could sense that they were moving, as she heard the creak of the door opening and the sound of his shoes over the stone flooring, but they weren’t rising up stairs.  
  
“Do I have my wand?” she asked, suddenly panicking and her breath coming sharp.  
  
“Yes, you’ve got your wand. You’re safe, remember, I can’t hurt you.”  
  
“How comforting,” she said, trying to be sarcastic, but she had a feeling it didn’t go over well. She was so tired, and everything looked strange, and she was _scared._  
  
They weren’t moving up. He wasn’t taking her out, where was he taking her? The panic began to rise dramatically, and she squirmed weakly in his arms. It was a pathetic effort, but at least it was one.  
  
“No, no, you’re okay,” he hushed her, even as they turned a corner down another hall.  
  
“This isn’t the exit,” she nearly sobbed out.  
  
“No, it’s not,” he said, “But I’ll take you out soon, okay?”  
  
“Take me back to my room,” she tried to demand.  
  
“Not yet, Granger, if I took you up there as it is we’d probably both be arrested,” he said with the barest, coldest hint of amusement lacing his words.  
  
“You’re good at hiding. Take me back,” she protested, but not all of her words came out.  
  
“Just a minute,” he said, leaning forward as they came to a stop, shifting her in his arms (she cried, at this, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes) until he held her one-handed (she could feel his arm shaking with the strain of it). Something soft, foreign and whispering, escaped his lips, and she heard the creak of a door opening.  
  
“No no no no no,” she could only get out, hating him more than she’d ever hated anyone. He wasn’t supposed to be able to kill her or harm her, but could he leave her trapped here forever? She’d get out, if he did, and kill him, damn the vow.  
  
He supported her with both hands, even as he stepped into another room and the door closed behind him as candles flared to life around them. She knew there was light, but she couldn’t see anything, and she hurt so bad.  
  
“Still with me, Granger?” he asked sharply. “Granger? Come on, you’ve got to stay awake.”  
  
“Damn you to hell,” she slurred.  
  
“You can do that later,” he noted, and she felt herself laid down carefully on something soft and far more forgiving than the cold stone floor of the other room. Soft. Feather down. A bed?  
  
She started hyperventilating. No no no no, but she couldn’t speak and the room started spinning, the previous blur swirling into a horrible, confusing pattern.  
  
“Shhhhh, shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said frantically, “I’m not going to hurt you. Shit, Granger if you go into shock I can’t help you. You have to stay calm.”  
  
She took a normal breath. And another. And another. She tried to find some bit of calmness, like she had in other bad situations.   
  
“Just breathe, got it? Breathe, you’re fine, you’re safe.”  
  
“I don’t know where I am with someone who hurt me. Not safe,” she tried to say, but it came out as a panicked sob as her words blended.  
  
“Shhhh, you’re in Slytherin’s family chambers, you’re in an old bed and I’m sworn to help you, remember? You’ll be fine.”  
  
She couldn’t respond. So very, very tired. But she looked over to the blurry form she knew was Riddle and tried to stay awake.  
  
“Granger, come on, sta--”  


* * *

  
When she opened her eyes again, things were hazy, but she immediately knew she wasn’t in a familiar place. Her breath came sharp, and she called her wand to her but it didn’t come. It all came rushing back in an instant; the hazy memory of her collapse, of Riddle carrying her through the hall to somewhere that was most certainly _not_ her room. And she was in someone’s room, that was for certain. She was lying on a soft, cushy mattress that she seemed to sink into perfectly, a blanket pulled up loosely to her chin. She tried to rip it off of her, but she only managed to push it back just a bit. Hazily, she recognized that there was someone seated on the edge of the bed.  
  
“No no no no,” she moaned, “Let me go and give me my wand.”  
  
“You have your wand,” came Riddle’s voice, the bed shifting with his weight. “You alright? You were out for a long time.”  
  
“What do you think?” she asked acerbically, but it fell flat.  
  
“No,” he said. “Which is bad because I’m no doctor and I barely know anything but the most basic first aid. So either we get you through this, or I’m taking you to the infirmary and telling them you collapsed, which I don’t think you’d like very much.”  
  
“No, they’ll send me to Mungo’s,” she said, blinking away the spots from her vision.  
  
“I assumed so,” he said, “So I brought you here.”  
  
She tried to keep her breathing calm, but it wasn’t working. “Riddle, get off the bed and step back so I can think of what to do,” she said weakly. He did as she requested.  
  
This was so surreal that she wondered if she’d died and gone to some hellish limbo. But, no, logically the sequence of events made sense. But she was rigid with terror, far more than she had been when he’d been torturing her. She’d been exhausted and weak, but at least she’d been able to do magic and was aware. Now she couldn’t really see, could hardly move, couldn’t summon her wand (at realizing this, she started blindly reaching out to find it), and Riddle was there.  
  
He said he’d keep her alive, and she knew he had to, but this...he could have left her on the floor, cleaned up her injuries, and dropped her off at the infirmary. Unlike her, he could get out. But she couldn’t go to St. Mungo’s. Not again, not without her Auror escort. Too many people going in and out, and as defenseless as she was, Grindelwald would have people there within hours.  
  
Her wand found her way into her hand, guided by Riddle’s own. “I wouldn’t recommend casting anything,” he said distantly.  
  
“I still want it,” she said, holding it so tightly that her knuckles went white. She still had her wand.  
  
“Okay,” he agreed, seeming to realize she needed the comfort of that little bit of safety. “Any ideas, Granger? Anything magical is out.”  
  
She took a breath, her mind sluggishly going over her healing knowledge. It was very lacking. “New project, healing spells,” she mumbled.   
  
He was silent.  
  
Oh yes. His core was even more depleted than her own. “...We are in trouble,” she finally said. “I don’t have magic either.”  
  
He let out a small sound of agreement. “When was the last time you even slept, Granger?”  
  
“No comment,” she said.  
  
“So not recently. Or eaten. God, you’d think a refugee would know to take better care of themselves if they’ve had access to food and a warm bed for awhile,” he said snidely.  
  
“I ate,” she said, and she was embarrassed that she sounded like a pouting child. She didn't mention that it’d been when she’d used the blood magic.  
  
“You sound like some of the three year olds at the orphanage,” he noted.  
  
“Well, I am an orphan, it fits,” she said, sighing. She wasn’t up to arguing with Riddle.  
  
“Likewise,” he noted. “I’m going to see if I can’t get something. I don’t think you’re in any condition to move, but I can still go up.”  
  
“Get what?” she asked, growing anxious.  
  
“Lucas.”   
  
She sighed. “And how would he be able to help?”   
  
“He’s a healer, he’s apprenticed to Madame Kleese. The students should be back by now.”   
  
“Oh,” was all she could say to that. She wanted to go back to sleep, and her token attempt to stay awake was fading fast. “Have you been setting timers for your head?” she asked finally.  
  
“...No? I feel fine.”  
  
“Idiot,” she said sharply. She took a breath. Focus. “Alright, non-magical healing methods. Stealing potions, eating, sleeping.”  
  
He ignored her. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Just sleep while you can.”  
  
She gulped, and concentrated on her breathing. He was leaving her in this place alone and essentially trapped.  “Go, and hurry, or as soon as I can, I’ll rip a damn hole somewhere and come find you.”  
  
“Good luck attempting that,” he said, and seconds later she heard the sound of a door closing.  
  
She tried to focus, but she had nothing, and the next blink she took did not lead to her opening her eyes again for a while.  


* * *

  
  
“I left you alone for a week. One _single bloody week,_ and you do something like this!”  
  
“I--”  
  
“Shut up or I’ll hit you.”  
  
“Do it,” she got out sluggishly, her tired brain amused at the thought.  
  
“Oh thank Merlin, she’s awake. Can you understand me?” There was a stranger there, someone other than Tom.  
  
“Yes,” she said. “Who are you?” she asked, looking for her wand again. She’d turned in her sleep and it was gone again.  
  
“My name is Lucas, I’m a healer. I’m going to make sure you’re alright, okay?”  
  
“Oh, Abbott,” she said tiredly. Riddle had mentioned earlier that he was going to get him.   
  
“You talked about me,” Abbott’s voice came, even as she heard the sound of shifting cloth. His tone was angry.  
  
“Didn’t really have a choice.”  
  
“What the fuck did you do to each other?” Abbott asked, his tone vicious.  
  
“You don’t want to know.”  
  
“Tom, that’s not comforting in the slightest. She’s at death’s door and you look like you weren’t far behind until recently. How did you get into this much trouble?”  
  
An almost hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up in her throat. That was a loaded question, and one she could probably spend week answering, since it involved far more than just Riddle.  
  
“She recognized me,” Riddle responded tentatively.   
  
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she said slowly, trying to make her words understandable.  
  
“Well you’re welcome to join the conversation if you’re up to it,” Riddle’s voice came back acerbically.  
  
“Tom, shut up,” said Lucas. “You’re pissing off my patient. And me, come to think of it. I can’t believe you never told me you were the _fucking heir of Slytherin._ ”  
  
“We’ll talk about it later.”  
  
“If you didn’t have a concussion I’d hand you your ass.”  
  
“Take a number,” she said. Both males ignored her.   
  
“I’m going to cast a few healing spells now, alright?” said Abbott.  
  
She tensed. He was still Riddle’s Second in his group, and thus was dangerous.  
  
A wave of soft, warm magic flowed over her skin like smoke, seeming to seep into her every pore and fill her with comfort.  
  
“Your magic is nice. Smells like snow,” she said.  
  
She heard a tiny chuckle at that. “Snow, huh. Didn’t know it had a smell.”  
  
“Crisp,” agreed Riddle from the corner.  
  
“Shut up ,Tom, I’ve had enough of you already for one day,” came Abbott’s voice, his tone biting. Surprisingly, Riddle did so.  
  
Merlin, that felt nice. A cool, soft hand pressed to her forehead and smoothed her hair from her face. “Do you feel a bit better?” He had a gentle voice.  
  
“Yes. Sleep?” she asked, feeling herself start to drift off, soothed for the first time in ages, even with Riddle less than a stone’s throw away.  
  
“Not yet, Miss Granger,” he said gently. “I just need you to open your eyes for a moment, okay?”  
  
She did. She could tell his hair was a golden-blonde, and had broad shoulders, but otherwise not much.  
  
“Can you see me?”  
  
“Blurry.”  
  
“That’s not good,” he murmured. “Okay, let’s see if I can’t clear that up for you a little bit.” Soft fingers pressed over her eyelids, gently pushing them shut, and warmth swept over her face and deep into her skull.  
  
When he removed his hands, and she opened her eyes again, things were much clearer.  
  
His eyes were an icy blue, like a cold, clear winter’s day, and that’s all she saw before she drifted off again.  


* * *

  
  
“YOU WHAT?!”  
  
She opened her eyes.  
  
There was a distant sound of a response from the other room, followed by a loud crash. “YOU FUCKING BASTARD I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU! NO, ACTUALLY THE SAD PART IS THAT I CAN! DON’T TALK TO ME.”  
  
She felt a lot better this time, and she tested her range of movement. She held up one arm, and then the other.   
  
The door snapped open sharply and the unfamiliar boy from earlier entered, slamming it shut with little care as to the yelp the noise drew from her as the noise hurt her ears. When he turned to look at her, she winced, knowing she still couldn’t do magic, and he was _livid._  
  
“Blood magic.”  
  
“He mind raped me of information no one was supposed to know.”  
  
“Yes, of course that excuses your behavior _entirely_. Blood magic and Legilimency, Merlin, you both are fools of the highest order.” He dragged his hand over his face and dropped down into a seat that had been pulled up beside the bed at some point.  
  
“I just want him to leave me alone,” she said, annoyed. “And I’m Hermione Granger.”  
  
“Pleasure,” he said shortly, clearly finding it nothing of the sort, before his anger faded and he rubbed at his temples, sighing and leaning back in his seat.  
  
“No,” she said. “I’m sure it isn’t. Are you going to try to kill me when he isn’t around to keep his end of the vow?”  
  
Abbott stared at her. “Vow.” His eyes narrowed.  
  
Well, she’d fucked that up badly. Lying, even by omission, was harder when the two people involved hadn’t been able to corroborate.  
  
“Answers, immediately,” Abbott hissed. “Or I will rip them from you, patient or not. Tom’s not the only one who’s good at Legilimency.”   
  
“He can’t harm me, and in exchange I will protect him from Grindelwald and Dumbledore, and not kill him unless he tries to kill me.”  
  
Abbott rose from his chair and stormed back to the other room, calling out loudly, “TOM, GET YOUR SKINNY ARSE OVER HERE.”   
  
She had a feeling that even if she willed herself to sleep, her new healer would wake her up in a very creative and horrible way, so she tried to focus. She could hear raised voices, in the other room, as Riddle confirmed with a bit more detail the conditions of their ‘vow’.   
  
For a spare second there was silence, before Abbott stated, “I’ll fucking kill you both.” Riddle’s harsh, but quieter protest followed.  
  
She wondered if him essentially setting her to die at his friend’s hands counted. This would have gone over so much better if he’d just dropped her off at the Infirmary, even if he’d had to make the most outrageous story he could think of to explain her being suddenly near death.   
  
Lucas Abbott burst back into the room angrily, his magic flaring about him in discontent. She could see that he was, indeed, quite strong, but he didn’t compare to her level, let alone Riddle’s. He wouldn’t know that, though, not with her core so depleted, if he was capable of sensing such things.  
  
“Congratulations,” he hissed as Riddle slipped in the door after him, “On your new bodyguard.”   
  
“Preferable to him being my executioner, as he’d nearly made himself,” she said coldly.   
  
“I’d probably be better off myself if you’d both just killed each other,” Abbott growled, dropping into the chair beside the bed. “Fucking idiots, the both of you.”   
  
“Lucas,” Riddle said, his tone warning.   
  
“Tom,” Abbott mimicked, his voice even icier than her own, which was an accomplishment indeed. “Go fuck yourself. Get out of here, and go sit in a corner and think about what you’ve done.”   
  
Riddle stared at him blankly, not moving. Abbott rose from his seat, wand in hand, and moved toward Riddle. To her surprise, Riddle stepped back as if to escape, though he didn’t leave.   
  
“The _only_ reason I haven’t cursed you both back to kingdom come, individually since you can’t know what I do to her, is because she’d die for my trouble and you wouldn’t probably last a good cursing either.”  
  
Riddle simply watched him impassively, unblinking. Abbott glared right back, but their staring contest ended quickly as Abbott gave a snarl of anger and moved for Tom, who dropped back quickly. But Abbott who, unlike either of them, was healthy and at full strength, was a good bit quicker and had him up against the door in an instant, wand at his throat.   
  
If she wasn’t so out of it, this might have been amusing.   
  
“Do it, then,” Riddle goaded quietly. “Going to, Lucas? There’s nothing at all to stop you.”  
  
She decided that Riddle was an idiot and he deserved it if the other boy made him a blood splatter on the wall and carpet. She doubted it would happen, but at least she had the amusing mental imagery.   
  
“I hate you,” Abbott whispered. “I hate you so much.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” Tom disagreed quietly. “You don’t, and you wouldn’t dare cast at me.”  
  
Abbott shoved his wand a bit sharper against Riddle’s chin. “You want me to, don’t you?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You’d like it, if I did. Always wanted me to have that capacity, to fight, to hurt, didn’t you, Tom?” Before Riddle could answer, he forcefully removed his wand. “But I won’t, and it won’t begin with me cursing you into the wall because of your foolishness.”  
  
“Weak.”   
  
Abbott gave him a steely glare. “To someone who thinks the best resort is to hurt in any way they can then, yes, I guess I do seem weak.”  
  
“You wouldn’t be willing to fight me even if I was aiming to kill,” Riddle said calmly.   
  
“I’d lose if you aimed to kill me, Tom, even if I did fight back. And I’m not playing into another game of hypotheticals. Are you really just going to stand here and insult me, or do you want me to fucking do my job?”  
  
Riddle was silent.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Abbott hissed, “now get out.”   
  
Riddle left stiffly, and Hermione wished that she could follow him. Then again, if she could, she wouldn’t be facing down a pissed off healer with a wand when she couldn’t even get out of bed.   
  
Abbott turned back again, stalking over and dropping back into his seat as he let out a sharp breath of air. “Anything to say for yourself?” he snapped, glancing back to her even as he cast a flurry of diagnostic charms.   
  
“He’s your friend, so I doubt you’d believe anything I say anyway,” she said simply, watching the flurry of spellights over her with the detachment of someone who had been placed under them many times.  
  
“Try me,” Abbott said flatly.   
  
Deciding that she had nothing to lose, she began laying out her side of the story. She got out what she could, leaving out the dangerous parts--her family, what she’d been really doing, and the important hidden information--basically telling him she was a refugee wanted by Grindelwald and then relaying what had happened since the night she’d arrived at Hogwarts. She had to pause several times, too tired to tell it all in one go, but she got it out eventually.  
  
Abbott was ashen by the time she had finished, ending on the note of Tom bringing her here, wherever ‘here’ was. He rose from his seat slowly, hanging onto the arm of the chair with a white-knuckled grip. “Excuse me,” he said quietly, “I believe I need a minute to process this. I’ll be back in a bit.”   
  
“Okay,” she said, her voice hoarse and very tired. She wondered if she could sleep again, but now that she was more aware she was a bit too nervous to sleep.  
  
Abbott seemed to recognize this even through the haze of his own torrid thoughts, and he leaned over the edge of the bed, gently pressing a hand to her forehead. “Sleep,” he murmured, and that same warmth of his magic washed over her like a gentle, muffling blanket.  
  
“Okay thank you,,” she said before she could stop herself.  
  
He gave a bitter smile, and stepped away. “I’ll be back.”  
  
She was out before she even heard his footsteps head towards the door.

* * *

  
Distantly, voices reached her as she awoke. They were barely-understandable at first, but she focused in on them, pulling herself back into consciousness.  
  
“You’re Slytherin’s descendant. A parselmouth. _And a Dark Lord_.”  
  
Oh, had Riddle left that part out of his story? She grinned. Good.  
  
“I did say as much, yes?” Damn, apparently not.  
  
“Well yes, you did, but it’s just so fucking insane that I had to hear it again to be sure I wanted to believe you.”  
  
“I’m not lying, Lucas,” he said, but even she could hear that the calm was fading from his voice.  
  
“Bloody hell, Tom, I’ve been your closest friend since first year and you still saw fit to hide all of this from me? Did you think I’d hate you for it?”  
  
“I don’t like it about myself, Lucas. Why would I believe you’d feel any differently?”  
  
“I don’t hate you for it, Tom. I hate you for lying to me. For hurting other people. For hurting me, hurting yourself. And for what you did to that girl in there, Merlin, I can’t even...she’s a mess, Tom, she should be in Mungo’s, even despite what you did to her. But instead, this girl is fucking fighting you with the worst dark magic I’ve ever seen, and you both are using the worst sort of darkness, magical or otherwise, to hurt each other. It doesn’t excuse either of you, this...this insanity, of yours, it doesn’t.”  
  
“I’m not mad--”  
  
“Yes you are. You are and, damn you, I still love you despite it all.”  
  
Hermione decided that this would be a good time to pretend to be asleep, even as she listened in. This was distinctly uncomfortable to listen to.  
  
“Lucas, don’t...don’t say that, I--”  
  
“I can’t deal with this, Tom, I can’t keep covering for you and just letting you lie to yourself. You’re sick. There is something wrong with you, it is a _fact_.”  
  
Ah, so Lucas Abbott was more aware than Riddle had let on. She felt the smallest tendril of pity for Riddle, but it was very much overcome by how much she disliked him.  
  
“You know I’ve been studying muggle medicine, right? And muggle psychology?”   
  
“How wonderful, expanding your medical knowledge even to this extent,” bit out Riddle, now finally angry.  
  
“Do you know why, Tom?”  
  
Oh Merlin. There was a heavy silence that, after a few moments, was broken by a quietly angry voice. “Damn you.”  
  
“I went into healing because of you, Tom. Not because I’m good at it.”  
  
“Be quiet, Lucas.” Riddle’s words shook with repressed rage.  
  
“No. I won’t. There are other people, people who exhibit the same signs that you do. They’re violent. They hurt people for fun. Their emotions are dulled, or nonexistent. They feel no empathy. They exhibit superficial charm, high intelligence and the unique ability to carefully observe their surroundings and mimic what they see in the behavior of others. And each and every one of them denies that they are sick. The more recent studies call it sociopathy, Tom.”  
  
Hermione hadn’t studied Muggle psychology, but that sounded like Riddle exactly. So his illness had a name. She wondered what hers was, but she quickly buried that thought.  
  
“Are you enjoying finally getting out your worst thoughts about me?”  
  
“No, I’m not, not at all,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ve known this for ages Tom, this only confirms.”  
  
“Could have proved me wrong,” he bit out, and Riddle’s voice was laced with venom. “And bloody good for you. You’ll make a wonderful healer.”  
  
“You don’t need to try to hurt me,” he said quietly, voice shaking. “You already do it enough as it is.”  
  
“You’re hurting me,” he stated simply.  
  
“It needed to be said. Sometimes the truth is painful, but that doesn’t make it any less real.”  
  
“Yes, and you want to know the truth, Lucas? I’m apparently an insane Dark Lord. Mad just like the rest of my fucking family. How wonderful. Should we lock me up? Where? St. Mungo’s or Azkaban?” His words shook with rage and she knew, if his magical core wasn’t depleted, that his magic would be terrifying in its heavy intensity.  
  
Hermione’s eyes went wide as it hit her, the truthfulness of Riddle’s words. She sat up, slowly, looking around to see if there was a back exit to the room. There was none, only the door leading to the painful conversation between Riddle and Abbott.  
  
“Did you hear me say that?” Abbott hissed. “I don’t want you bloody locked up, people waste away to nothing when you do that. They worsen and they die, often by their own hand. I want you to fucking live, you idiot, I want you to be happy and to be healthy and safe and everything I wish for anyone else.”  
  
“Whatever this is, Lucas, clearly it can’t be fixed. You’re beating a dead horse.”  
  
“No, it can’t,” he agreed quietly.  
  
There was complete silence, from Riddle.  
  
“It can’t, Tom. There’s absolutely nothing that can be done about illnesses of the mind, like this. We don’t understand the human brain. Neither wizards nor muggles, though muggles are beginning to attempt to.”  
  
“...Stop it,” he said, but Riddle’s voice was small.  
  
“No.”  
  
“STOP IT!” There was the sound of several things shattering in the other room, and she nearly jumped out of the bed in alarm.  
  
“Going to hurt me, Tom?” Abbott’s voice came, soft and smooth as honey.  
  
“No, never,” he said quickly. “I’d never hurt you.”  
  
“You’re doing a good job, though, why stop now?” Abbott’s words were gentle, almost painfully loving. It was obvious he knew they would hurt, that they would hurt terribly.  
  
There was a choked breath, almost a sob, but it was wrenched back in. Hermione knew from personal experience that doing that was both physically and emotionally painful.  
  
“Well, Tom? You say you’d never want to hurt me. You always say that. You never keep to it, though. You sabotaged our friendship until it was obvious I wouldn’t leave. You sabotaged our relationship, until you couldn’t stand it anymore that I was still with you after it all, and left yourself. And now, here. You’re hurting me again, Tom, and really I just don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what to do, because it’s starting to hit me that _I can’t help you.”_  
  
“You’re leaving, then? Finally?” he asked, but his words were cold and dead.  
  
“Is that what you want? It seems like it’s what you keep trying to get me to do.” Abbott’s voice was shaky, pained.    
  
There was silence, but when she listened closer, Riddle was softly mumbling. “No, no, please, that’s not what I want. Never.”  
  
“Then why do you push everyone away, Tom?” Abbott questioned, his voice cracking. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”  
  
“I don’t know!” he said, sounding frustrated and very hurt, almost childish in his pained confusion.  
  
She didn’t know what to think and, quite frankly, she didn’t care about Riddle’s pain all that much. She had more concern for the other boy, who clearly had been burdened with something he didn’t deserve, but she just didn’t feel the way she used to. She didn’t care all that much.   
  
“I think,” Abbott began slowly, “that you feel like everyone is eventually going to leave you. You’ve been abandoned. Repeatedly. And you don’t form lasting attachments because you are afraid of being abandoned again, so you do it yourself and cut ties to prevent that hurt. But it doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t stop you from hurting, or you from hurting those you leave behind. It just makes it worse as you keep trying to fill that absence in your life and only making the damage worse.”  
  
“Thank you for your analysis. It must have taken you a lot of reading to piece the broken parts of me together.”  
  
“No, actually, that was fairly apparent rather quickly,” Abbott said dully. “Do you think I’m enjoying this, Tom?”  
  
“I wonder,” he said quietly, so faint she almost didn’t hear him.  
  
There was the sound of shifting fabric. “I don’t,” Abbott responded quietly. “I hate it. I hate it so much and it just gets worse with each day. And saying this to you...like this, after knowing what you just did, it’s...I feel like I’ve just been ripped in half, Tom, I don’t...I...” a broken sob echoed through the void of silence.  
  
There was no response from Riddle that she could hear, but sometimes sobs came out of the silence again, and they were slightly muffled. She stared dully up at the painting on the top of the four poster bed, the flowers dancing in wind no one could feel, and a nymph waving at her and spinning around.  
  
“I can’t let you keep doing this to yourself, to other people, I just can’t--”  
  
“Lucas--”  
  
“--If you hurt any person who doesn’t deserve it like that again, I’ll leave.”  
  
There was a heavy silence for a moment that even she could feel. “Lucas, she used blood magic--”  
  
“No-one deserves what you did. Or what she did to you. If she hurts you again like that either, I’ll retaliate myself and she’ll fucking pay for it. But Tom, I can’t just let you keep doing this. I can’t. And if the only thing that will stop you is me, then _I’ll bloody fucking stop you_ ,” he hissed, though his voice was wet and shaky.  
  
Though she didn’t intend to do anything to Riddle at this point, and she didn’t think Abbott was much of a fighter, she still pulled up her wand. Her movements were much more fluid and closer to normalcy, and thus she decided, while listening, to test other things.  
  
“I’d kill you,” Riddle said slowly, horror dawning in his voice.   
  
She stopped, realizing it just moments after he did. When she had formed that vow and binding him to her defense, she had only really taken into account her enemies related to Grindelwald. She hadn’t taken into account just how far he might be forced to go with basically innocent people.  
  
Oh Merlin. Though even as the thought came she could take it back, with a heavy price, she knew she wouldn’t. Riddle was far too much of a risk to her without it. So it’d have to be this way, even if it sat heavy upon her shoulders to do something like that, even to Riddle.  
  
“You would,” Abbott agreed bitterly, “You would if I got in your way, you never let people step on your toes as it is. But it would hurt you at least a bit and maybe let you _think_ for a fucking second about what you are doing, so it’d be worth it. So Tom, there you have your ultimatum. It’s not about the girl. It’s not what you did, what she did. It’s what you’re doing to yourself, what you’re turning into. And I can’t let that happen, Tom, and if me standing in the way will make you pause for one fucking second and realize what you’re about to do and what you’re going to become, then it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”  
  
She couldn’t think about it, or it’d eat her alive. Distraction. Feeling the wand in her hand, she did a simple lumos, testing her magic, and a tiny light came to her wand. It immediately drained her though. The ceiling swam before her eyes, but she managed to stay conscious.  
  
“Shit,” she swore tiredly, trying to will the ceiling to stay still. The conversation outside swam into incoherence. Eventually, her senses seemed to stabilize. It wasn’t long, but when she gained enough coherence to pay attention again, the only sound she could hear was dead, blank silence, and the shift of fabric.  
  
Hermione’s mind wandered, wondering what was going on now, but most of the thoughts that came up were too awkward to contemplate, so she decided to see if she could get up.   
  
Abbott’s voice came distantly, barely a whisper of itself. “Tom? You with me?”  
  
She tuned them out, slowly sitting up, and testing her strength. She was okay, sitting up, and that was a good sign.  
  
A sob brought her attention back. “I hate you.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” Abbott’s voice came distantly, followed again by the sound of shifting fabric.  
  
“I wish I did.” Riddle’s voice followed in a breathy gasp.  
  
“Me too, sometimes.”  
  
Blocking them out again, her ears burning, she turned herself slowly towards the edge of the bed. With her movement, more candles in the room came to life, and she was relieved to have more light. _Alright, I can sit up, and I can turn. Good signs_ , she thought.  
  
“Tom? Tom please, focus? Look at me, look, I’m still here. Right here, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“I can’t do this, Lucas,” he choked out.  
  
She put a leg out to try to get out of the bed, and she fell out. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor in the other room jolted her out of her pain, and she looked up sharply, wand at the ready.  
  
“Tom? Tom, come on, hey, breathe? Please? Shit, don’t pass out on me. Oh fuck, his head--”  
  
Hermione immediately started scooting towards the door, and pulled herself up by the table next to it. He couldn’t die, damn it. Abbott was definitely the kind of person who’d drain himself to death trying to save everyone there.  
  
“Tom, hey, come on!”  
  
When she thought she could, she moved against the wall to open the door. “You need the spell for his head?” she asked, sagged against the door frame.  
  
The sight that greeted her was most certainly not what she was expecting. Tom was, visibly, seemingly wide awake and not in visible pain. But he was shivering, half-clutched in Abbott’s arms as he sat on the floor beside him, tears curling over his cheeks. Abbott leaned down, running his fingers through Tom’s hair and pressing his lips to his forehead.  
  
Okay, he wasn’t dying, back into the room. She sort of crawled back in, and closed the door behind her. Riddle wasn’t dying from his head injury, and thus she was going to pretend that she hadn’t gotten out of bed. She hoped Abbott would follow. She knew Riddle would.  
  
Now, back to the bed. She looked over, and it seemed very far away. Maybe she could just rest on the floor for a bit? It was carpeted. She sunk down, leaning against the wall, and, a bit later on, just openly laying down on the carpet, too tired to care.  
  
She faded in and out, distantly opening her eyes once at the sound of footsteps approaching to see clean, freshly-pressed pants and sharp black shoes moving toward her.  
  
She panicked, and tried to roll away. “No no no no,” she said, looking for her wand.  
  
“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” Abbott said carefully, “Just me, relax.”  
  
She focused on her breathing, trying to find that calm place. But she was too weak to be able to focus.  
  
“Okay. Breathe, just focus on breathing, think of somewhere calm, somewhere comfortable,” he soothed.  
  
“I don’t have anywhere,” she said tiredly.  
  
“Home, maybe?” Abbott said tentatively. “You live with your aunt and uncle now, right?”  
  
She thought of her aunt and uncle, and the house she’d been in, and that peace, and tears came unbidden. “I wish I’d never come here,” she said quietly.  
  
“Shhh, it’s okay,” he murmured, “It’s okay.” When she finally met his gaze, his eyes were sad.  
  
She tried to calm down, and she eventually did, and she was so glad that she didn’t try to comfort her by touching her. Riddle had either told him or he’d guessed, and she was glad he respected that.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asked carefully, crouching down next to her.  
  
“I think so,” she said, and she decided to try moving towards the bed, and so she sort of started crawling over in that direction. She could crawl a bit, which made her far more proud than she wanted to admit.  
  
“Would it be alright if I helped you? You really shouldn’t overstrain yourself. If you do I am entirely serious when I say we will have to have you taken to Mungo’s.”  
  
“It’s fine, but I might fall,” she said at his question at helping her. She didn’t want him to, but she’d take it over St. Mungo’s any day.  
  
“Then I’m going to help you.”  
  
She nodded. Carefully, he stepped forward and raised his wand, murmuring a charm. She felt herself rise from the ground, and set gently down on the bed. “Merlin, you both did a number on each other,” Abbott murmured.  
  
She didn’t respond, and just weakly pulled herself under the sheet.  
  
“Okay, I’m going to let you sleep for a bit, alright? When I wake you up you’ll have something to eat.”  
  
She frowned at the prospect of food.  
  
“You need to eat,” he reinforced. “Eat, and rest, or else St. Mungo’s it is.”  
  
That was a good threat and thus she relented, trying to settle back. She wondered about Riddle, but not enough to ask.  


* * *

  
When she woke again it was to the smell of hot food, and her stomach was growling in anticipation. She felt better this time upon waking as well, and sat up on her own, looking around for the food and Abbott, who had most likely brought it.  
  
“Hey,” Abbott said, giving her a sad smile. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Better than before,” she said, sitting up.  
  
“Can you see alright? Everything’s cleared up?” he asked, crouching down and meeting her gaze.   
  
Her gaze followed the food rather than face the anxiety of someone’s face so close to hers. “My vision has been fine since you fixed it,” she said. “Food?” she asked.  
  
Abbott nodded, and moved the tray over onto her lap. “You going to be alright with that on your own?”  
  
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be fine,” she said, feeling like she was back at St. Mungo’s all over again, playing the polite patient so that they would let her out. At least this healer didn’t try to touch her. However, this one could also be dangerous.  
  
Looking down, she recognized that the food was light; stuff that wouldn’t upset her stomach, but would still be filling and healthy. Quite used to this fare, she began quietly eating, leaning up against the headboard.  
  
Abbott sat back in silence, eventually producing a banana and setting it on the tray once she’d managed to finish the rest. “Potassium. It’ll help keep you alert.”  
  
She didn’t need to be told twice, her paranoia listing off mentally all the poisons he could have used in the food even as she ate the banana. She needed all the help she could get in staying sharp.  
  
There was a silence as she finished her banana, and put the peel on the tray.  
  
“How much did you hear?” Abbott asked tentatively. Ah, they weren’t going to pretend she hadn’t seen.  
  
“If it’d make you more comfortable for me to vow silence, I will, but I had no intention of saying anything. I wouldn’t have reacted at all, but I thought he might need the magic I’d used on his head again.”  
  
“What? No, I wouldn’t make you do that, I just...” His voice cracked painfully.  
  
She looked at him. “I understand.” She felt the cotton rising in her throat, and she turned away. With this boy, she had no idea how to react. At least, with Riddle, she knew to be in a constant state of fearful alertness.  
  
“I wish there was something I could do to make this better but really all I can do is clean up the aftermath,” he said after a while.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak, and words failed her. She hated how she’d been forced into this situation. “Not your burden,” she choked out finally.  
  
“It is, though,” Abbott said, “I’m the only one who can look after him and the moment I turned my back this happened.”  
  
She thought that he was being foolish, but she wouldn’t say that. “You can’t control him.”  
  
“I know, I know, I just wish...I’ve never seen him get like this before, usually I can stop him...the last time--”  
  
“Pickerson?” she asked, not sure exactly what had happened, but having a feeling that was what he was referring to.  
  
Abbott went white. “Pickerson was a monster and hurt a lot of people. But he didn’t deserve what happened.”  
  
“People set the scales of justice differently.”  
  
“Yes, they do,” he agreed quietly. “If you asked Tom, he’d say he deserved it. He has very strong feelings, about what Pickerson did, though I don’t know why.”  
  
It dawned on her, immediately, the one thing that would probably infuriate Riddle above anything else. “What happened to Pickerson? He told me he pushed him off the stairs.”  
  
Abbott looked away. “That was after everything else. Pickerson is currently in St. Mungo’s mental ward for incurable patients.”  
  
Riddle could do that to her. He was to protect her, but intent was everything with magic, and she’d been thinking physically and magically, not mentally. But rather than grow afraid, she grew angry. She would never, ever allow him to do that to her. She’d drag him into the depths of hell.  
  
Abbott regarded her astutely. “You think he’d do that to you, don’t you?”  
  
She looked over to him, and her anger faded. “I won’t let him make me go insane.”  
  
Abbott took a shaky breath. “Tom wouldn’t.”  
  
She gave him a cold look. “You have a lot more faith than I do, especially considering my condition right now.”  
  
“He said so himself. Said it would ruin everything.”  
  
Her expression went icy. “Oh, so it’s still a game, as he says it. Another rule, I guess.”  
  
Abbott lost any remnant of color. “Oh Merlin.”  
  
That was decidedly _not_ a good reaction. She wasn’t surprised, as what he’d done was not a game under any circumstances, but she had an inkling it was more than that. “He gets bored and plays games with everyone, then,” she guessed, picking with her fork at the remnants of her meal.  
  
Abbott slowly closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. “Never like this. Not even with Pickerson it was never like this.”  
  
“Or you didn’t know,” she said, having a feeling that Riddle had done a lot more to Pickerson than he’d informed Abbott about. “If I hadn’t been dying, you wouldn’t have known about this either.”  
  
Abbott seemed to be on the verge between tears and being ill. “Excuse me,” he said quietly, and left.  
  
She watched him go and, carefully, put the tray of food on the nightstand. She didn’t dare do it by magic, but at least she could move around better. She felt bad for Abbott, because he seemed to be a genuinely good person and didn’t deserve this. Riddle deeply cared for Abbott in turn, that much she knew, but she had a feeling that Riddle’s regard was always a double edged sword.  
  
Abbott returned a good while later, seating himself yet again and pausing momentarily to make sure the tray was properly balanced. “You were right,” he said quietly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said, unsure of what else to say, though it felt wrong for the situation.  
  
He just sighed. “I’ve just had my eyes opened a bit more than I expected. I suppose I’m glad in a way. At least there aren’t really as many secrets now.”  
  
She didn’t reply, but looked around the room instead. It was much more lit, much to her relief, small light orbs hanging in the air. As Riddle had told her when he’d brought her in, it was a bedchamber, and it had a nightstand, a table with a vase of flowers on it (still fresh), an armoire, and a fireplace that could only be safe due to magic.  
  
“Riddle left us down here, didn’t he,” she said, strangely calm despite everything. He’d told her the basilisk couldn’t come through this area.  
  
“Even with all of this, he still needs to play a part,” Lucas said, keeping his expression controlled.  
  
“If he leaves us here, once I’m well, I’ll bust a hole to get us out,” she said calmly.  
  
“He won’t. I can get us out if need be, though it won’t come to that. He’s been in and out twice already.”  
  
“Well, not for you,” she said.  
  
“He wouldn’t leave you either,” Lucas said, “Not with that vow.”  
  
“Even with that vow there’s quite a bit of wiggle room. He could technically keep me alive down here indefinitely, but I hope not,”  
  
Abbott’s face twisted. “Well, I wouldn’t let him do that to you, so don’t worry about it, okay?”  
  
She didn’t say anything back, but picked at the comforter, starting to get slightly antsy now that she had some energy. “What time is it? I’m not sure if I can do a tempus charm,” she finally asked, as if there hadn’t been quite a bit of silence.  
  
“Eight p.m. Tom will probably be back soon, but I don’t think you should be moving just yet.”  
  
“Ah,” she said, thinking she’d slept more than she had in ages, and she felt more awake for it, even if she was completely drained in every other way. “You think Riddle will let us leave the next time he returns?”  
  
“Of course, I’ve been out once to get food for you as well. Technically this means you could leave, but I really don’t think it would be good for you to move just yet. It could be dangerous to your condition.”  
  
“I’m leaving,” she said determinedly.  
  
“You can’t even stand,” Lucas said flatly.  
  
“I haven’t tried since the last attempt, and it’s been a while,” she said defensively.  
  
Lucas sat back patiently in his seat. “You can try if you like then,” he offered, opening his arms wide, inviting her to do so.  
  
She carefully moved, putting one leg over the edge of the bed, and then the other. She grabbed the bed post, and stayed up that way, but it was clear she wouldn’t be standing without any aid. Glaring hotly at nothing, annoyed at her own feebleness, she sat back down on the edge of the bed, but refused to lie down. Lucas hadn’t moved a muscle, simply watching her with a placid expression on his face, hands neatly clasped in his lap.  
  
She wanted to snap at him, but clearly this wasn’t his fault, and thus she bit her tongue.  
  
He didn’t offer her aid. He didn’t smile, he didn’t ridicule her sorry little attempt. He simply watched, waiting to see if she could make it back to lie down, from where she sat weakly at the edge of the bed, still clinging to the post. She realized he was making a point, simply letting her realize her capabilities for herself, and with that realization came the thought that his patience came from experience. Dealing with Riddle, most likely.  
  
With that realization at how powerless she was came the onset of deep-rooted fear, and she was aware enough to realize exactly what could happen to her. It coated her throat with ash, burning the remnants of any feelings but the determination to live. She scooted back against the spot where the bed frame met the wall, not going back to lie down, and tried to find that determined, center core that she’d held on to since the night of the attack.  
  
“You alright?” he asked calmly, unmoving.  
  
“I will be,” she stated, only just managed to keep her tone steady.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Granger.”  
  
She didn’t reply to that, but just kept an observant eye on her surroundings. She was mentally more alert than she had been for a while. If only her magic and body would catch up. She glanced up, noticing there was some sort of decoration above the fireplace.  
  
“Getting a bit cold isn’t it,” Abbott note absently, rising and moving to the hearth, lighting a smokeless fire.  
  
She didn’t hear him, just staring in shock as the fire in the fireplace put the tapestry showing the Peverell coat of arms in stark relief.  
  
Hermione had gotten, she believed, the last and only copy of the Peverell coat of arms when she had come into the possession of Alderan Gideon-Peverell’s journal. He had been the stepson of Antioch Peverell and despite having been brought into the family at a late age and being the heir to the Gideon line, he had been proud. He had placed both coats of arms in the journal. The Gideon one on the front cover, and the Peverell on the back.  
  
And here it was again, the unmistakable form of a black hunting dog,  on a background of deep maroon and, above it, three wands to represent the three brothers and the honor their line had in having three Dark Lords born into their family. Above this, in careful script was written, ‘Cavete a Canibus’. Translated, it simply meant ‘beware of the dogs’ but, all things considering, she had a feeling it was a warning to outsiders about the family rather than their actual motto. This had been absent from the crest on Alderan’s scripts, but Merlin.  
  
She had guessed very early on that the only official information on the Peverell brothers, that they had died in the thirteenth century, was not accurate. None of the few mentions of them fitted into that time period, but actually were from several hundred years prior. So the Peverell’s descendant had married Salazar Slytherin, when she’d assumed it had been later in the lineage. But just how close in familial ties had Slytherin been to the Peverell brothers? It had to be from Cadmus’s line, there was no question, considering that Riddle himself was now in possession of the Resurrection Stone. But for all she knew, it could have been Cadmus’s great-granddaughter.  
  
It was a huge bit of information. She sighed, and leaned her head against the wall. She couldn’t take anymore major surprises, after all that had happened this week, even as her mind turned the information rapidly, thinking of the implications.  
  
The sound of a door opening and closing brought her out of her thoughts, and when she and Abbott looked up, Riddle stood against the frame. She immediately worked to wipe her expression of her thoughts.  
  
“Ready to move yet?” he asked, not looking at her, or at Abbott.  
  
“She’s in no condition to leave yet,” said Abbott at the same time she said, “Yes.”  
  
“They’ve noticed she’s missing.”  
  
“Dumbledore?” she asked.  
  
“Of course,” he said tiredly.  
  
She nodded, and gathered her determination. She had to get out or she’d be forced to deal with questions that she had no way of answering. Her mind worked over how she’d get out. She could barely even stand on her own. But, then again, neither could Riddle, when she’d been taking care of him.  
  
Hermione sighed. This was so humiliating, but it wasn’t like they had any other choice. “Moblicorpus and disillusionment. I don’t think, even with physical support, that I could make it up to any entrance.”  
  
Riddle didn’t respond, merely glancing to Abbott, who tentatively nodded, standing and withdrawing his wand. Wary, she laid back down.  
  
A wand gently tapped against her head, and she felt as if a cold egg yolk had been cracked in her hair as the disillusionment spell took effect. She then felt herself rise from the bed, sheets dropping away as Abbott’s spell supported her. “Alright, let’s get moving. And Miss Granger, when you’re back I expect you to eat and rest again. If you don’t it could have serious implications on your core’s recovery.”  
  
“I will, Abbott, thank you,” she said. Even if he’d done this under Riddle’s request, he still apparently didn’t want her core to be destroyed even when he was about to be relieved of his burden--well, at least her.  
  
Abbott nodded, even as they slipped from the room, trailing after Riddle down the hall and through a different doorway leading to an inclining hall, rather than a stairway. She didn’t move, knowing that it could effect the spell, but her eyes trailed around the dark halls lit only by ancient torches as they moved up.    
  
“I need both of you to close your eyes,” Riddle stated, his voice level. “Only open them when I say so.”  
  
Hermione didn’t need to be told twice, knowing what she was guarding against, and shut them tightly.  
  
For a time it was silent, save for the sound of their footsteps echoing in the open hall, before the echo became greater, deeper, suggesting a large open area. And soon, the echoing footsteps were accompanied by the loud splash of water as they sloshed through an area that, it seemed, was partially flooded.  
  
Hermione found this a bit odd, but wasn’t about to question it, though she knew they had to be in the basilisk’s territory now.  
  
The sound of something much, much larger than human feet moving through water met her ears. Abbott stopped suddenly, and she hovered in midair beside him, eyes squinched tightly shut.  
  
“Lucas, keep moving, it’s fine. Just don’t open your eyes.”  
  
Abbott had far more faith than she, because he began walking again. She wondered, considering now that she was slightly shaking despite having no tremors of her own, if he was actually too afraid to speak.  
  
The sound of a soft, low hiss rumbling through the chamber, rising and falling in intensity, met her ears. Every hair on her body rose in terror, and she wondered if this might be the last moments she ever had.  
  
A much higher-pitched tone followed it sharply, commanding in its biting, sharp sound, strange as it was to imagine such a thing coming from the mouth of a human being. There was the sound of something sliding through the water horrifyingly close, and she felt the slight gust of air against her face as it was displaced close by. Abbott gave a small sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, and she felt herself quaking dangerously as he fought to retain control of it despite the distraction.  
  
“Lucas, calm down, please, she’s not going to hurt you,” Riddle’s voice came, soft as honey, soothing the poor boy, who, after some painful minutes had passed, managed to steady the spell.  
  
Hermione gave a small breath of relief, until she heard the sound of movement through water again, still sliding past, and a strange, aching noise from up ahead that hurt her ears.  
  
“She’s leaving. You can open your eyes in a few minutes, just wait for my command.”  
  
If she could have, she would have made a biting comment at him making commands, him holding her life in his hands or no.  
  
The sound of the basilisk moving past them continued on, and on, and on. The thing was enormous, much larger than she’d ever read about any other basilisk being. Then again, this was probably the oldest basilisk in the world, as most were killed by terrified locals. It was just her luck, really, she thought with some morbid amusement.  
  
“You can open your eyes now,” he said, and Hermione opened them, though she couldn’t see much at all, despite the torches lining the walls.  
  
The receding form of a monstrous snake was visible between the shadows, which only she saw since she was facing backwards. She was glad Abbott hadn’t seen, because it had been thicker than even the oldest trees in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
They continued on, walking down the stone pathway until they came to a large door. With a hissed word, that Hermione could feel, through the spell, that made Abbott startle just a bit, it slowly swung open.  
  
“A girl’s bathroom?”  
  
“Previous ancestor changed it to look less suspicious, I think,” Riddle said distantly.  
  
Hermione stored that bit of information away, and would see which floor they were on once they exited. This was also where this little mission would grow more difficult--they had to avoid her bumping into other students and avoiding looking suspicious.  
  
They left the bathroom, and Hermione noted they were on the second floor. At least they wouldn’t have far to travel.  
  
“Tom! Oh there you are I’ve been looking _everywhere for you,_ sweetheart!”  
  
 _Sweetheart? Oh Merlin, this could take forever_ , thought Hermione, annoyed. Though, oddly enough, she didn’t remember Riddle mentioning anything about a girlfriend.  
  
Abbott let out a quiet groan of annoyance as a girl in Gryffindor colors slammed into Riddle and planted one right on his lips.  
  
“Am, I’m sorry but I’m not feeling particularly well at the moment...I’m actually heading off back to the dorms,” Riddle said, making his voice just shaky enough to arouse concern but not enough to send him off to the infirmary. She couldn’t help but be a bit knocked over by his acting skills, for all that she disliked him.  
  
“Oh goodness, do you have a fever?” the girl asked, pressing her hand to his forehead.  
  
Somehow, he managed to expertly extricate himself from her arms, still managing to keep up his ‘sick, loving boyfriend’ act all the while. “No, Amarys, just a bit exhausted. If it isn’t too much trouble, could you send Sadie my apologies about not wrapping up prefect duties? I thought I could handle it, but I really need to rest.”  
  
Amarys didn’t move, only looking more concerned. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital wing? You’re as white as a sheet, Tom!”  
  
“I’ve got Lucas right here, you know he’s Madame Kleese’s apprentice. I’m in good hands,” he reassured.  
  
Abbott barely worked up a smile for ‘Amarys.’ “He’s going to be fine, just needs rest and a good, healthy breakfast tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh, okay! I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, then?” she asked, looking up at Riddle with wide green eyes.  
  
“Of course,” said Riddle, putting on a fond smile.  
  
“Brilliant!” she said cheerfully. “Just get some rest and get better, alright? If you need anything, just send word,” Amarys said, patting his cheek and pressing a quick kiss to his lips before walking off in the opposite direction.  
  
The moment she was out of earshot, Abbott stated flatly, “I hate that girl. You need to break up with her soon.”  
  
The hall was empty, and Hermione called Riddle a horrible, rotten bastard low under her breath. He had been pretending to be romantically interested in her in front of _everyone_ there over the Christmas hols, and he already had a girlfriend in the wings. She would make Riddle suffer if this came and bit her in the ass.  
  
“Later, Lucas,” said Riddle, already moving down the hall towards the staircase.  
  
“Where are we going?” asked Abbott, as they headed down another stair.  
  
“Slytherin dungeons, she has a separate room there.”  
  
“She’s a Slytherin?” asked Abbott, and he sounded so surprised.  
  
“And the most cunning one I’ve encountered yet,” Riddle confirmed. Hermione was spooked by the pride lacing his tone. It seemed, judging by Abbott’s expression, he was as well.  
  
“Being awfully handy with compliments today, aren’t you, Tom,” Abbott said carefully. Riddle ignored him.  
  
They were heading down the staircase leading into the dungeons, and Riddle discreetly looked down each section of the hallway, and pasted a smile on so brightly that Hermione didn’t even have to look to see who it was. It was definitely Slughorn.  
  
“Tom m’boy! There you a--oh good gracious, is that a student?”  
  
Well, that was not comforting in the slightest. She began steeling herself that if Abbott was forced to have to drop the mobilicorpus that she’d stand up on her own, even if her body didn’t want to.  
  
Riddle’s expression morphed into one of surprise, and then embarrassment. “She collapsed in the hall, Professor, but insisted we not take her to the Infirmary. I didn’t want to upset her,” he said, and if she’d had any magic, she’d have cursed that fake look of concern right off his face.  
  
Lucas’s lips thinned into a dangerous, angry line and Hermione, despite being able to feel that Abbott did not even compare to her in power, let alone Riddle, did not envy the lying bastard that was getting a chuckle and pat on the shoulder from Slughorn.  
  
“I’ll assume it’s Miss Granger under there, then?” Slughorn said, glancing toward her. Clearly, he could at the very least sense that there was a disillusioned person there, something that your average wizard couldn’t do immediately on passing. “Are you alright, dear?”  
  
“I’m fine, just missed too much sleep and too many meals,” she said.  
  
A frown swept across Slughorn’s pudgy face. “Now now m’dear, that’s not good for you at all. I’ll have the elves bring something down for you within the hour. Perhaps Dippet will allow you access to the kitchens at whatever hours you need, if I ask nicely enough.”  
  
“Thank you, Professor,” she said tiredly.  
  
“Oh no trouble, no trouble at all. We only wish for you to be in the best of health, m’dear. Now go on, get some rest. Do you know where her room is, Tom?”  
  
“Yes, she told me the way,” Tom said pleasantly, inclining his head.  
  
“Righto, m’boy, I’ll be seeing you both in class tomorrow,” Slughorn said, and with that continued on his way down the hall.  
  
They soon made it to her room, and Abbott floated her to her bed. The moment he released the spell, he took a deep breath and turned, suddenly throwing his weight against Riddle and slamming him against the door, much like he had earlier.  
  
“I am going to murder you in your sleep,” Abbott stated, his voice eerily calm as he held his wand to Riddle’s throat. “It’s one thing after another with you today.”  
  
Hermione laughed, but it was vindictive, because she genuinely hoped Abbott would try.  
  
Riddle threw her a brief, angry glance her way for her reaction before focusing completely on Abbott.  
  
“That was me! You were mimicking me, _you fucking bastard_. I don’t like it and it’s going to stop immediately. I have had more than enough of your bullshit to last for the rest of the year and it’s only the first fucking day back!”  
  
“Sure,” said Riddle, clearly having realized he’d made a bad tactical error and backtracking was by far the most sensible route.  
  
Abbott slammed him against the door once more for good measure, glaring at him. “I think I’ve got enough hate in me to cast a crucio now, Tom,” he said, his voice low.  
  
“If you need to,” said Riddle quietly.   
  
She wondered if this was a familiar song and dance between them, or if all of the horrible things Riddle had done, and subsequently roped Abbott into helping him deal with, had thrown the cracks in their relationship in stark relief.  
  
“No, I’ll find something that will hurt you worse,” Abbott said lightly. “Get out and go back to the dorm. I need to clean up after your mess.”  
  
Riddle stepped to exit, but then yelped in pain as Crookshanks came up and scratched Riddle clean through his pants and to the skin beneath, and Riddle couldn’t shake him off of his leg for a good long while.  
  
“If that cat is yours, Granger, it’s my new favorite animal,” Abbott said flatly. “You can take care of that yourself, Tom,” he said, closing the door in his face as her wonderful, amazing kneazle slipped back into the room. Abbott proceeded to cast numerous wards. She wondered why, since none of them would keep Riddle out, if he really wanted to get back in, as she’d clearly learned.  
  
Crookshanks jumped up onto the bed and curled up beside her, purring so hard that she felt like she was shaking. “I’m okay, Crookshanks,” she said, petting the kneazle that she had a feeling was very concerned about her.  
  
“Grendal,” Abbott said sharply, and with a crack a house elf appeared that made Hermione startle, causing Crookshanks to yowl a bit.  
  
“Professor Slughorn will probably request that food be sent to this room soon. I would like you to make certain that this food is healthy and filling; perhaps some fatty meats with no grease, fruits, steamed vegetables, things of the like.”  
  
The elf bowed, and disappeared again with another loud bang. After she calmed down from that, she wondered if she could just ask all of the house elves that came to her room to not apparate.  
  
She glanced up, and she saw that Abbott, too, was growing tired. He’d been looking after her and spellcasting continuously since early that morning.  
  
“You should sit down,” she suggested.  
  
He didn’t protest, pulling out the chair from her desk and seating himself, leaning his head back for a moment and simply breathing, eyes closed. “I apologize for taking over your room for the moment, but I still need to look after you for a bit.”  
  
“It’s...fine,” she lied, but seeing no way that she could get out of it. At least Riddle had left quickly, though she was going to magically scrub the few places he had been once she was well enough to do so. She wanted none of Riddle’s taint in her room.  
  
Eventually, Abbott rose from the seat and pulled it over to the bed. “Are you feeling any better? Any pain? Discomfort?”  
  
“I am feeling better, and I haven’t had any pain or discomfort at all since you healed the injuries from where...” She trailed off, not sure exactly what to call it because ‘torture session’ probably would upset him.  
  
Abbott took a slow, deep breath, and closed his eyes. “Just what did he do to you?” he asked quietly.  
  
The memory caused the cotton to come back up in her throat, and she choked out. “Can’t.”  
  
Abbott’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his seat. “You don’t need to tell me if it bothers you so deeply, alright?” His voice was soft, but there was a steely look in his eye that said he’d be ripping that information from Riddle later, after he left.  
  
She nodded, still unable to speak as she tried to get the memories to fade.  
  
Abbott seemed to, eventually, fall into his own thoughts. As time passed, he let out a quiet shudder, and pulled in on himself. She wasn’t sure what to do, and just looked away, hoping that at least maybe privacy was a kind gesture, and lay as she was, absently petting Crookshanks.  
  
The silence was broken by the crack of apparition as two elves appeared with individual trays of food, startling them both, though Crookshanks didn’t even twitch. Hermione sat up a bit more as one of the elves brought her a tray. “Thank you,” she said, feeling like she’d said it a lot and that no one cared whatsoever.  
  
The little elf bowed graciously, beaming at her before disappearing once again, followed by the other. She opened the tray to find a thick chunk of roast duck with various cooked greens and a bowl of fruit beside it, along with three different drink options.  
  
“They really spare no expense on the food here,”  she said quietly, picking up her fork and trying to cut her meat, not wanting to touch a knife, even to cut food, for a while.  
  
“The elves are used to spoiling the students rotten, I think,” Abbott agreed, picking at his food. Clearly he had little appetite, after the insanity of today. He looked at her oddly when he noticed that she wasn’t using her knife, and slowly, the color drained from his face with the coming of dawning realization. Clearly, Abbott was aware of the fact that Riddle was always carrying some sort of blade.  
  
She had more reasons than just Riddle for disliking knives, but she was not going out of her way to bring up anything that painful, let alone to help Riddle, so she let the horrified silence hang. She fed Crookshanks a small piece of the meat she got off, though he was actually sniffing at her green beans, oddly enough. She turned around for just a bit, and Crookshanks had decided to eat her green beans.  
  
“Bad kitty,” she said, but it was half hearted, as she disliked green beans. And besides, Crookshanks had managed to scratch Riddle fairly well, earlier. If anything, he deserved a treat. At the rate Riddle was pissing off Crookshanks, he was going to have some serious scars on his lower legs to match the ones on his back and torso. In the end, she set the bowl of green beans on the nightstand, and Crookshanks jumped over to eat them.  
  
Abbott, by that point, had picked listlessly at his food and really not eaten anything, despite his rather pasty complexion. Sighing quietly to himself, he eventually began methodically working his way through the contents of his plate, managing to finish barely a quarter of it before eventually setting down his fork and levitating the tray over to her desk, before quietly saying, “I wish we had met under better circumstances.”  
  
“I...yes, that would have been nice,” Hermione agreed tentatively. She had a feeling her presence wasn’t making his situation any better, and she felt a debt to him for keeping her alive. She probably would have died down in the chamber if it hadn’t been for him, even if he had only done it to save Riddle’s skin. She didn’t know anything, she realized, at socializing with people her own age, and it wasn’t something she could read about in the library. “Perhaps you should go rest? I’m just going to be here, sleeping.”  
  
He nodded tiredly, and did some small spell that sent the trays back to the kitchens, since she had finished her food as well. “I think I’ll do that,” he agreed, standing. “I expect you to rest fully for the next few hours at the very least, if you’re intending to actually go to class tomorrow after this mess.”  
  
“I am,” she said stubbornly. “And I won’t get out of this bed until it’s time to get ready for breakfast,” she promised.  
  
“You’re _both_ completely mad,” he said flatly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, most likely. Goodnight, Miss Granger.”  
  
“Good night,” she replied as he closed the door behind him. As soon as the latch clicked shut, she was filled with a temporary sense of relief. She was in her room, no longer in the Chamber of Secrets, and Riddle (and his friend) were no longer with her. She pushed down the disquiet that promised later panic when she managed to take in everything that had happened to her in the past day, and forced herself to turn over, weakly pulling out her wand and setting an alarm charm. The small effort knocked her into an exhausted sleep easily.  


* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This fic has been discontinued. Ras, my coauthor, has stepped down and I have begun rewriting the fic under the title "Death and the World" under the username rynthewin. Temperance will be a series and I hope you will enjoy it as much as you have this one!

A/N: Ras and I apologize for the delay. I actually moved—and I moved in with her. We’re roommates now, which is very awesome! But moving is always very stressful and time consuming, and thus the large delay. But we hope you enjoy this chapter! Trigger warnings related to disordered eating. We forgot to mention that trigger warning when we first posted this, and we really need to thank Stromsten at FF.net for pointing it out to us. 

* * *

 

Chapter 7

_Red glistened in flickering light over polished metal. The blade had been painstakingly cared for, she could see, for all its cheapness.  The hand holding it whipped it back and forth between its fingers, dancing around the knife that shined crimson with her blood. She tried to speak and tell the hand to stop, but she opened her mouth and blood came out, dripping down. She couldn’t move. She was paralyzed. Her magic was completely gone._

_The hand extended from the flickering shadows, an arm following behind it, and Riddle, smiling widely, followed after. Somehow this was both a surprise and yet not one at all._

“ _I told you not to gut yourself on that blade, Granger.” The Hallow’s stone glittered in its setting on his hand. “I could always bring you back for more, after all.”_

_She tried to scream but she was choking. She could feel the pieces her throat moving, a mess of pain and open, slashed skin. But she wasn’t dying. Somehow, she knew she wouldn’t die no matter how long she sat there and bled out._

_Riddle slid forward, his movements slow. “It will take a while, I think. Cutting you up. But I’m sure I’ll enjoy it regardless. Time well spent, mm, Granger?”_

_Her bravery was long since gone. She couldn’t be sure if she’d ever been brave as she sobbed over the pain and blood._

_And then he flicked the knife around in his hand, and stabbed, and she was screaming...._

* * *

 

She woke up with a scream upon her lips, panting and soaked in sweat, to Crookshanks headbutting her as hard as he could, pawing at her arm and yowling loudly.

For the briefest moment, she thought that she might be in her aunt and uncle’s house, and that it was just a bad nightmare and she could go back to sleep. But then the candelabra flickered into life upon her waking, iron-cast snakes holding each candle neatly in place. There was a Slytherin tapestry decorating the wall opposite her bed, there were her suitcases still piled up in the corner for Crookshanks to play with, and her relatives’ house had not been made entirely of stone.

Oh Merlin, it had really happened.

A sob tore from her throat. She turned beneath the sheets that had tangled about her legs in sleep, burying her face beneath her pillow. Tears tracked down her face, soaking into the cotton fibers of the pillowcase.

Riddle knew so _many_ of her secrets now, and he’d hand-picked through everything until he found the most dangerous, darkest secrets of them all to keep as his own. The fact that she had managed to rip some bit of leeway from him in laying bare his own was a weak, empty comfort. Those secrets could be used to hurt him emotionally, but hers? Her secrets could potentially give Riddle an army. Her secrets could give rise to yet _another_ Dark Lord, right here in Britain. Right here, and _he knew where her family lived._

She felt as if the ceiling was closing in on her, crushing her beneath it’s weight. She’d been through so much to hide that information, and it’d been taken from her with three droplets of Veritaserum. Riddle knew he owned a Hallow, he knew what the others were, and he knew what they could do.

She curled into a ball beneath the messy sheets of her bed, eyes wide but suddenly completely dry.

It had been foolish not to kill him. She’d managed to put aside her own morals in the past to do what she needed to do to stop Grindelwald, but she’d succumbed to weakness and treated Riddle like a normal person rather than the monstrous powerhouse he really was.

At least now she had something over him. He couldn’t hurt her. If he so much as laid a finger on her in a hostile manner, she’d have control of him for life. It was an ugly curse. A horrible, ugly curse. But it had been necessary. Should it come to that, having that control, she had no idea what she’d do with it, or with him. But she had that assurance of protection, and that was all that mattered. And, with that, she could keep a close eye on him to make sure he never used that information about the Hallows.

Yes, Riddle would be forced to watch her back at every moment, protect her to his greatest capability--oh no. Oh, no no no no, no.

 _He’d never leave her alone ever again._ And she had, in her wording, made it impossible for him to ever do otherwise.

Hadn’t she suffered enough, even before coming to Hogwarts? Now she’d nearly died again, _and_ had Riddle to deal with. She’d wished she’d taken a moment to think of some better way to bind him. But, instead, she’d been so stupidly exhausted and scared that she’d just reacted.

And reacting even that way...she shuddered, a nauseating guilt washing over her. She had felt bad after using blood magic against Riddle, but what could she tell herself when she does just as horrible things a second time? It was cold comfort saying that she hadn’t been able to hold her wand over him and cast the killing curse. If that was all she didn’t resort to (and she had before) then she didn’t want to know what she was becoming.

A slave curse. Merlin. It was a good excuse, she supposed, to say that he would have killed her. That they would have torn each other apart in their...what could she call it? A game? A battle? She didn’t know. But Riddle had said it himself, that he didn’t plan to kill her...before her reaction, anyway.

There was no question that Riddle was horrid. There was no question that he was violent, that he was a danger to her and to others as long as he was free, but somehow it didn’t make her feel any better, knowing that. Because really, however monstrous he was to her, he was still only a boy. He was no Grindelwald. But she had treated him with the exact same hateful violence which she had vested upon Grindelwald’s forces.

And, pragmatically, if he didn’t want her dead before then he probably did now. She had done the very same thing to him that his own mother had done to his father. Of course she had done it in a different way, but no less stripping him of his autonomy, and potentially far more permanently, should he make the slightest infraction. The fact that she didn’t think she would misuse it (then again, she was beginning to question her moral compass) should he fail didn’t mean a damn thing.  

Really, killing him might have been kinder. He’d be jumping at every shadow that passed over her, and she had far worse things than shadows to worry about.

Maybe she had sacrificed her privacy. Maybe she’d never be alone again. Always, always in the company of a Dark Lord, one way or another. But she would be safe. She wouldn’t be alone in keeping herself alive, and that was all that mattered. And she knew she was cold enough to accept that, for all the guilt and nastiness of what she’d done.

And merciful Morgana, but she felt guilty. Beyond that though, there was a lingering feeling of nastiness, like some bit of ugliness had attached itself to her skin, sticky and dark as pitch.

She glanced over to the window, trying to direct her guilt-ridden thoughts elsewhere. There was no light filtering past the water’s surface, just barely visible at the top of the frame. So the sun hadn’t risen yet. Still, she couldn’t sleep after that. Her eyes remained widened to their limits as she stared up at the awning over her bed, obscuring the ceiling.

She felt nasty, and she cancelled her alarm spell to get up. It had been a risk, casting it, and had in fact resulted in her slipping into unconsciousness for a short while, but it had been a necessity. She slowly and carefully moved to the bathroom, stripping off her dirty, sweaty, and bloody clothes to take her shower. She smelled of blood, and she cried again as she stepped into the shower and felt the water beat down upon her with impunity as she curled on the bottom of the shower. Everything hurt. There were bruises in places she hadn’t felt before. The dried blood caked at her neck and at her hairline, though the most obvious injuries were gone. She washed it all away, though it felt like a lie.

The water was tinged a pale shade of pink for a short while, like someone had dropped ink into it and let it flow and mix as it made its way down the drain. She felt dirty and stained, in a way that went so much, much deeper than her skin. She scrubbed and washed her bruised, scarred body, but nothing helped.

Who was this girl, in this body? She didn’t feel like herself. She wasn’t bookish, bouncy little Hermione anymore. She wasn’t the little girl who curled up on the floor surrounded by old texts, or who got excited and jumped a bit whenever she got a spell right in front of her tutors. She wasn’t a girl who took books and authority figures to be law to the letter, to be infallible. She wasn’t the girl who’d been just a tad bit curious, about the dark spells that laced the books her father studied. No, she was wallowing in that darkness now. And a powerful, loud part of her wanted to just let it consume her. Shatter down and crush any remnants of that girl that were still left over in the aftermath. At least, if there was only darkness, there would be no Hermione, no not-knowing who she was, because it was the parts left over of that girl she’d used to be that felt so bad, guilty, and haunted. Who wanted to weep and be afraid at what had happened to her, and wanted to feel crushingly guilty for what she’d done to Riddle...and what she’d done to survive, before him.

Hermione knew, with every corner of her being, that she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t let that guilt overtake her, or she’d collapse under the strain. There would be no winning. No protecting Britain, and saving what had been conquered. No stopping Grindelwald. No-one to stand in his way but those who weakly remained as others ran, wands held in shaking hands as they faced their deaths.

There was no way, ever, that she could let that happen. And she’d be damned if she let her guilt stop her from using the weapons that had been given to her, or those that she’d taken for herself.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stayed beneath the warm stream of the shower, just curled up on the floor as the water seeped down her back and through her hair, sticking it tightly to her head. But, as always, she got up again. She was growing so very tired of of picking herself up again, though her resolve to do so was firm.

She didn’t risk a drying charm. She hadn’t even been able to do a simple lumos yesterday, and the alarm spell had been a mistake. She was magically drained, nearly dry. Dangerously so, and walking alone was hard and exhaustive.

She had said she would go to class, but trying to get up and pretend that the past two days hadn’t been abnormal at all and that she was a normal student was simply not something she was capable of doing. However, she couldn’t stay in her room. If Riddle had any sense--and while she questioned his sanity and emotional capabilities, she didn’t question that--he’d show up to collect her for class, and possibly even breakfast. If she wanted to avoid Riddle than she needed to get away, and the quicker the better.

This thought was enough to spur her to rise from her bed, scrubbing a towel through her hair and pulling on her clothes with as much speed and as little pain as she could manage, stuffing her feet into her shoes and fastening her expandable purse onto her hip. She grabbed her wool cloak and tossed it over her non-wand arm. She needed to go early, and she needed to go _now._ It was entirely possible Riddle had surmised that she would attempt to avoid him, and if she wanted to get out she’d have to do so quickly and quietly. After all, the only other exit to the room aside from the door was the glass window, heavily-fortified against breaking or damage. Not to mention that if she did break it, she’d most likely just get the lake to flood the dungeons rather than escaping. That alone was a chilling thought. As much as she liked her room, it was not safe. If someone blocked the door she was trapped, and beyond that Riddle would always, always know to look here first to find her, as he had the previous night.

Crookshanks padded behind her as she quickly headed up the staircase, hyper-alert for anyone’s approach, and doubly so for Riddle’s. However, it was even six in the morning, and thus no one was heading to breakfast or in the halls yet, since technically it was not the proper hours to be wandering the halls. Unless, as it turned out, you were Edward Belby and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, which she hurriedly avoided, slipping behind a stone Knight in a small alcove to hide. A house-elf opened the Great Hall early to let them eat, luckily, and as soon as they all filtered in, she darted past to head towards the Entrance Hall exit. There was nowhere in the school that Riddle wouldn’t have time to look, should he get up early enough, so she needed to go outside and stay out there at least until class started.  

Once she was outside, she felt better, and her hurried pace slowed down by a hair as she pulled on her cloak to protect herself against the winter air, even as her wet hair became bitterly cold. But she couldn’t risk drying or warming charms, and she’d been through far worse conditions while on the run.

She was horribly cold, and dizzy with hunger and exhaustion, but she discovered the door to the clearly-empty groundskeeper’s hut was only locked with a basic charm, and broke in easily enough. It was no great castle, but it was warmer than outside and unexposed to the wind and elements. The hut appeared to be currently used for storage, judging by the numerous boxes, trappings and old furniture piled off to one side. She curled up by the hearth, shivering desperately as she debated on whether she had enough magic to light a smokeless fire, even as she reached inside her hip purse and pulled out another cloak, bundling herself in the two of them and hoping it would be enough. It had been something she’d gotten very good at, but risking herself to pass out or be unable to get out of the elements over a fire that wasn’t necessary for the length of time that she would be out there was not an intelligent move. Still, as the cold grew, and seeped into her bones, she knew that her cloaks wouldn’t be enough, thick as they were.

Reluctantly, she crawled over to the fireplace, and with a small whimper at knowing this was _such_ a bad idea and she would be hurting for it later, she lit a smokeless fire.She was immediately lying flat on her side, gasping at the emptiness she felt. Unable to get up for a while, she just curled up in on herself, and kept track of the time by the sun outside, peeping through the cracks of boarded-up window shutters. She felt Crookshanks curl up against her stomach, purring loudly as she curled up as close to the hearth as possible with her little fire.

A sense of self-loathing filled her. It had crept up on her slowly, over the past few hours, but suddenly it rose from just beneath the surface, towering over her every thought. Riddle was not the first person--and not the most innocent--person she’d ever questioned. However, she had helped herself sleep at night by telling herself that she’d been thorough but not needlessly violent, and that she’d done it to prevent information from falling into Grindelwald’s hands.

She didn’t have that excuse. Not this time. And it made her wonder if her excuses were just that--paltry, useless explanations that did nothing to actually frame the extent of what she’d been doing over the past year and some odd months. Hermione curled tighter in on herself, hugging Crookshanks. Everything hurt in the cold, and worse than that she could feel the oncoming numbness of unconsciousness.

A rushing noise filled her ears, and her world tilted.

* * *

 

For the first time in a long time, Tom found that he didn’t want to get up, upon awakening early in the morning. He wanted to descend into sleep, and forget. You didn’t have to face reality, if you were dreaming, after all. You didn’t have to face friends who accused you of insanity, or deliciously wicked frizzy-haired girls who were willing to torture for revenge. Not that he couldn’t understand her motives, really. He could understand all too well, and that only made it worse, that he hated her for it.

And even in that same moment, he found himself drawn to those instances, when she came so close to snapping. He wanted to _see_ that darkness in her, buried just under the surface, he wanted to draw it out as many times as he could until it couldn’t be hidden any longer. He wanted her to be like _him._ More than she already was.

That impulse, however, came at a deep price. It’d been a very long time indeed since anyone had actually managed to hurt him, and she’d done so repeatedly. But that wasn’t as bad as the memories and the emotions she’d managed to rip out of him, even as she watched with cold, enraged eyes, glittering with hate.

He swallowed. She knew. She knew about the orphanage, about his family, and every sordid detail of the evening he went to Little Hangleton. _She knew about his horcrux._

And worse than that, _it wasn’t just a horcrux._

The Deathly Hallows. Tools of destruction, and one had passed, somewhere along the line, into his family’s keeping. How foolish had he been, that he had reached out in that moment of agony and clasped on to the one thing he could sense--for of _course_ he would sense it, in its darkness--in order to save that piece of his soul, upon breaking, without knowing what that darkness stemmed from.

And she wanted it. There was no doubt in his mind that she was making plans on how to steal it. And she was ruthless, and undoubtedly finding the Hallows had been the driving force that kept her alive and going. And now, there was one within her grasp. That goal that lit the fires of ambition in her eyes, was here, sitting comfortably upon his finger, beating in time to his own pulse.

_He just had to find the one person in all of Britain who might actually be capable of taking it, and poke her until she snapped back._

He was terrified for his horcrux. That was his _soul_ and it now wasn’t safe. But, damn it all, he still wanted to face her. He wanted her to fight him, even still. Even as dangerous as it was.

_And if he tripped up, even once, then all she would need to do is tell him to take it from his finger, key her to it, and place it in the palm of her hand._

The bitch was going to pay, Tom decided as he stumbled out of bed and into the baths, hastily scrubbing his fingers through wet hair. It’d been one thing to deal with this when he had been anxious about her dying and being put under the curse. It was quite another when she was healthy and he had time to think and absorb what the fuck had actually _happened_ to him.

He hurt, physically, and in other ways he didn’t want to admit to. And the physical hurt was so very, very small in comparison to the unnamed. Everything had gone so fast, and now he felt like he was being hit with a metaphorical motorcar. The memories of the abuse, the feel of the belt across his skin, and the horrible, horrible feeling of neglect that pervaded it all, culminating in that one moment when he’d taken the anger and hurt of it and used it to kill, to _destroy,_ it was all there in the very forefront of his thoughts, fresh and bleeding _._ Above it all was _her,_ ripping it all out, making him remember _again_.  

This was all her fault. If she hadn’t come in like a gale force wind, he wouldn’t be experiencing this torrent of emotion that made him feel like he was suffocating in the bath, drowning even though his head was clearly above water.

All. Her. Fault.

And he couldn’t get away. He remembered her dead tone as she wrapped him in that slave curse. He had to protect her to the best of his ability, or he’d be at her beck and call.

That knocked the wind out of him again, and he sank lower into the tub (he hadn’t even bothered to go out to the prefect's bath). He was stuck, and he had no idea how to get out of this.

Taking a deep breath, he slid beneath the surface, scrubbing his fingers through his hair one more time. He stayed under until his lungs screamed for air, before resurfacing with a gasp, sweeping his hair from his eyes and leaning back against the rim, breathing heavily.

There was no way he was attending class today. His mask was threadbare at best and, quite frankly, making the walk from the bathroom back to his bed seemed to be enough effort for a whole day. If he slept, he wouldn’t have to think about it, and not thinking about it was sounding rather fantastic at the moment. Oh yes, avoidance at its very best. Still, showing weakness, even so much as suggesting he was sick at this time, was perhaps not the greatest of ideas. He would never show weakness in front of Dumbledore at the very least, and he had a perfectly immaculate attendance record before Granger came to school. He had no intention of changing that anytime soon, come hell or high water.

He’d try going to breakfast. Any strangeness could be written off as illness should he not be as quick in properly responding as his persona, and it’d be brief, though the idea made him want to groan in frustration. The thought that he couldn’t keep up his persona even in this situation, after six years of perfecting it, annoyed him.

Everyone was just starting to get up when he dealt with the issue of maintaining his hair in its usual state. It took a bit of Sleekeazy but he managed to tame his dark, heavy curls with relative ease, despite the use of the usual charm or two. Tiredly, he combed it to the side before buttoning up his shirt and straightening his tie. Such frivolities suddenly felt useless, even as he went through the motions automatically of neatening himself to perfection. It wouldn’t do to stray from the image he had created for himself, not when things were so very uncertain from every angle he could see.

News would leak of the “attack.” There was no question that it would occur, only of when. Belby was a bit of a chatterbox, and the teachers were no better at all. Then, there was also the issue of exactly how to frame the Granger situation to those around him, and those among the Knights. And even those outside the Knights would eventually notice how much time he spent with Granger, and he wasn’t sure if he’d made a tactical error in setting up the facade of being romantically interested in her.

No, he had a lot to think about and be _very_ careful for the time being. Especially since he doubted he could keep his mask in check, should it be questioned.

As he pulled on his shoes and began lacing them, he glanced over to the lump on the bed next to his own, curled beneath a quilt with a mop of messy blonde hair sticking out over the top as if it had been stuffed with straw. Lucas hadn’t spoken to him even once, since they had both returned to the dorms. Not a word. And judging by the barely repressed fury on his face as he’d gotten into bed, he would not be forgiven anytime soon.

Of course, he would, eventually, be forgiven. Lucas always forgave him, no matter what the transgression. But it still irritated him when Lucas wasn’t nearby. Lucas was a familiar, constant moon in his orbit.

It was her fault. That infuriating girl had dropped into his life like a mortar bomb and was tangling it further with every passing second into an incomprehensible knot that, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out. And now he was in the worst mess he’d ever been in during his time at Hogwarts.

Tom grabbed his bookbag and headed out of the dorm even as Marcus, the usual early riser (next to Lucas) sleepily sat up. With each step down the stairs and towards the dungeon, his fury was stoked higher. He had been reduced to being a _babysitter_ \--a babysitter who, upon making the smallest infraction, would lose all of his free will, and become a slave. Any order she gave, he would be forced to obey without thought or question. And Granger was cruel when provoked, and he’d done so thoroughly.

Teeth grinding, rather than knocking at her door upon arrival, he djusted his bag and crouched down beside the doorknob, feeling about absently for any sort of protection spells and finding none except the ones Lucas had made...good, as he wasn’t the best at wards and had been tired to boot. So it wouldn’t even be much of a drain on his almost empty magical core to dismantle them (and he made a note to teach Lucas more about wards, as they could mean life or death). Granger was as drained as he was as well, so there would be less of a fuss should she be inside. The wards were down quickly enough, and he was left simply faced with a locked door. Years of growing up in the worst part of Whitechapel, coupled with a few handmade lock-picking tools, were more than enough to help him deal with that little issue, and the door clicked lightly as his way was cleared.

He opened the door, and the room was completely empty. Not even the damn furball was there. In fact, there was barely any sign of Granger’s presence within the room aside from the trunk at the end of the bed, a few suitcases in one corner as well as a blanket covered in cat hair, and a slightly-damp towel that had been thrown loosely upon the bed. Even her desk was relatively bare This was the only thing that really suggested she had taken residence here, as the sheets had been practically ripped from the bed in slumber.

His lip curled a bit. Clearly someone hadn’t had pleasant dreams the night before. He hoped he haunted her nightmares like a shade. He tried to ignore the fact that he was pretty sure she’d had at least brief appearances in his troubled dreams the night before as well. His fingers trailed over the edge of a photograph frame seated on the table beside her bed, before he picked it up.

A bright, happy little girl waved at the camera, frizzy hair bouncing as she clutched an oversized book in her free hand. A man crouched down next to her, smiling at her then looking ahead, even as a woman hurried back from the camera to join them in the photograph, wrapping her arms about them both.

Oh, her parents. Both dead now, if he remembered correctly. It was just one more thing that they shared. Due to her being taken in by her relatives, it was easy to forget she was an orphan as well, though clearly their circumstances were different.

The strangest thing about the photo, really, was that girl wore Granger’s face. It was like the difference between night and day. Like two completely different people...oh yes, Granger had been changed, deeply so by the war she’d forced to endure.

She said she’d been “boring.” He privately agreed that this was likely, though clearly she was very bookish, as a child. At the very least she had had intellect and unique magical practices that could entertain him for a good while, though, had she not changed. He wondered, how violently that change had been apparent, from one day to the next...when had she gone from the little girl in the photograph, to the hardened fighter he knew today? Had it been gradual? Had it been sudden after certain events, such as the death of her parents and her own attack.

He shuddered at the thought of the details of her attack, immediately and forcibly turning his mind to other things.

He had the intense desire to go through her things, possibly take a small item or two. You could tell a lot about people from their possessions, and somehow it didn’t surprise him that she had next to nothing. She seemed like she’d live a very Spartan existence, always ready to be on the move again. He’d gotten into a bit too much trouble with that his first few years at Hogwarts for such things as stealing, however, and Granger would definitely notice, should any small item be out of place. His lip curled slightly, as the thought struck him.

He didn’t have time to tear through everything. No, he had to find Granger, and quickly, but a few minutes could easily be spared to mess with her head. Something small, unnoticeable at first. Still smirking as the idea fully laid itself out in his mind, he set about his task of neatly moving each piece of furniture, as well as her suitcases, one inch left of their original position. It was a small, petty little tactic, but when a person familiarized themselves with a location, if there was some bit of change in their environment it could easily throw them off-balance. Beyond that he knew that this was her only safe spot, and she would not be pleased with his intrusion. At all. Incidentally, this only amused him more.

His work completed, he was about to leave and re-lock the door when he noticed something gleaming from behind her nightstand, shoved into the crack between the table and the wall. If he hadn’t moved the nightstand along with all her other furniture, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Curious about what Granger could be hiding, he took it out.

He thought it was a rather flashy mirror at first, until, rather than showing himself, other people appeared. Dumbledore was in front, wearing silly robes and looking like he was eating. A blonde man he recognized from the newspapers--Grindelwald--was also clearly near the front. And many more in the back, some he knew from where he lived in the summer (he refused to call it home) and some he didn’t know at all.

A foe glass... _it was a foe glass._

And Granger wasn’t in it. He looked at the face and outline of every person in it, and not one of them was her. Or wait...there she was, shadowing about in the background. But she was almost invisible. Clearly present, but that presence was so hazy that he had barely managed to spot her at all. He wouldn’t have known her if her hair wasn’t so obvious.

That disturbed him, far, far more so than Grindelwald being in his foe-glass. After everything that had happened with the slave and blood spell, and she was barely present within a glass that was designed to show him all of his enemies, big and small? And that haziness meant she was not much of a threat.

Confusion overwhelmed him, clouding his thoughts as he put the mirror exactly as he’d found it, an old thief’s habit.

He needed to get out. Forget about that hazy figure in the mirror, or the little girl in the photograph. His work completed, he re-locked the door and closed it behind him, hurrying back up the stairs. Bloody hell, he could not act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Bugger breakfast and class.

Granger had clearly fled for her own safety, and if she could survive in enemy territory then she would probably be somewhere safe. However, as much as he just wanted to ignore this for a while, he couldn’t take that risk.

He got out of the dungeons and took out his wand. “Point me, Hermione Granger,” he said. He was prepared for the painful drain, but it still was a major discomfort, and he found himself leaning against the wall for a bit to catch his breath. However, his wand pointed towards the Entrance Hall.

She’d gone outside. Was she _crazy_? It had been snowing all night and most of that morning, and it was freezing. Keeping his wand steady in his palm, he headed outside and followed the direction it pointed. When he saw it point directly to the empty gamekeeper’s hut, he knew he’d find her there.

* * *

 

She was so _cold._

The chill of the air dried her lips, searing painfully at her skin. Her clothes did her no good, and neither did the two cloaks. She had blankets in her bag but she was so _tired_. It seemed like a lot of effort to get one, at least for now. Making the fire had been necessary, but it was still a mistake. She probably should have stayed in the castle.

She’d go back later, when she had some more energy. Was she dozing in front of the fire, or was she fading in and out? She felt Crookshanks’ warmth against her back, and it was a small comfort. He kept meowing and she couldn’t figure out why, but he wouldn’t leave.

Shit. She shouldn’t have gotten up today.

The door flung open, rocking back on its hinges and sending in with it a gust of icy wind and snow.

Hermione bolted upright, wand coming to her hand immediately, turning around, and immediately regretted the decision as the room tilted sideways before coming back into focus. She didn’t have to be able to see clearly to guess who it was, though.

“Are you seriously so fucking stupid as to go outside the castle wearing _that_ in _this weather_? It’s a bloody miracle you’re not an icicle!”

She had no idea what he was talking about. She was wearing one of her dresses and two winter cloaks?

“It’s below freezing out and you’re out here with nothing but a tiny little fire? Are you _trying_ to fulfill that curse, Granger?” Riddle hissed, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I have a fire, winter cloaks, and a warm cat,” she protested. “I’ve been through worse.” She didn’t mention that she was dizzy as hell.

Riddle looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you need to _deliberately try to put yourself through anything that’s not quite as bad!”_

She gave him what she hoped was a scathing look. “Riddle, amazingly, I’m not a masochist. I am fine.”

“Oh really?” he asked, leaning forward sharply, “Because I’m genuinely beginning to wonder.”

Her wand was pointed at him firmly. Fuck magical drainage, she’d blow him through the wall.

“Going to curse me, Granger?” he laughed. “You can’t even light a magical fire bigger than the palms of your hands.”

“I’ll find some strength somewhere,” she hissed.

“And destroy your core in the process, yes?” he said, sneering. “Perhaps it will be easier, protecting someone relegated to being little more than squib. You’ll be more wary about who you piss off.”

“Your life would be quite hard then. And even as a squib, if you think I couldn’t take you down then you are so very sadly mistaken. Magic doesn’t make you immune, you fool.”

“Would that I could strangle you right now,” Tom purred, “I think I’d enjoy it immensely.”

That didn’t scare her, really. If anything, a hateful grin came to her face. “But you can’t. Checkmate, Riddle.”

“Well? Just going to sit there all day in the cold?” he snapped, ignoring her retort.

“Mad at me pointing out you’ve lost?” she asked sweetly, not about to get up at his beck and call. No way in hell.

“You make _no sense_!” Riddle snarled.

She laughed openly at his very visible frustration, though it made her dizziness worse. The arm that was propping her up off the floor was shaking. “I make plenty of sense. Are you sure your own break from reality doesn’t make you unable to see logical reason?”

“There is _nothing_ reasonable about this,” he hissed, throwing his hands wide. “You’re killing yourself to avoid me. You want me to be your slave then, don’t you,” he said, his voice low, soft and sibilant as he took a step forward.

She rolled her eyes at his melodramatics. “I’m not out here to die.” She really didn’t want him as her slave. It had just been the most binding curse she’d known, but she’d be damned if she told him that. He might risk the chance of hurting her, thinking she wouldn’t hold it over him.

“Then _why are you still here?”_ he spat.

“You’re between me and the door?” she said, raising her eyebrows. Riddle was cracking, and she wondered if he would hurt her regardless, curse or no curse.

With a grand, flourishing gesture of his hand, he stepped out of the way. “Then by all means.”

“What a diva,” she said scornfully, even as she mentally began telling herself that she _could_ get up on her own two feet and walk out of her, and hopefully lose Riddle in the process.

Walking had been hard before when she’d left her room, but getting up was harder than she wanted to admit to. It was impossible to ignore that it took her far longer than it should have. Crookshanks didn’t twine between her legs, uncharacteristically about a foot away, and was meowing again. Her kneazle suddenly moved to Riddle, butting against his leg and yowling loudly before returning to her, pawing at her leg as she stumbled to her feet.

“Down, Crookshanks,” she told him as she steadied herself as surreptitiously as she could manage with Riddle’s gaze boring into her forehead. It was horrible, but she was getting used to Riddle’s uncomfortably intense stares, and just met it with a neutral expression.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Riddle questioned impatiently, crossing his arms, lightly tapping his wand.

“I didn’t realize that we had an appointment,” she said sarcastically.

“You stand like an old man whose bones pain him.”

The fact that it felt like her bones _did_ hurt she ignored. “Such wonderful compliments,” she said, not really caring, as Crookshanks stepped and meowed, expecting her to follow. She’d follow her kneazle rather than Riddle any day, and thus she started.

The room had been unstable before, but walking made it twenty times worse. She was almost at the door when Crookshanks yowled very loudly, and she stumbled and fell soon after.

 _Shit shit shit_.

The ceiling swam above her, hazy as slow, unhurried footsteps crossed the room and she found herself looking up at Riddle, standing directly over her. Her wand pointed at him out of habit rather than any conscious decision.

“You couldn’t light a matchstick with your wand right now,” Riddle sniffed. “Think that’ll threaten me?” he asked curiously, tilting his head just the slightest as he crouched down over her.

“You _always_ underestimate me.”

“Going to pick yourself up then, Granger?” Riddle asked.

“Yes,” she said, though mentally she added that she needed a few moments.

“Can you even focus on my face?” Riddle asked, cruel amusement coloring his tone.

“I try not to look at you much, actually,” she noted.

He physically drew back, as if she’d slapped him, and she was _very_ pleased. She’d hit a sore spot with him. “You’re lucky anyone looks at you at all, Granger,” he hissed. She was about to retort, when he continued, quietly, more to himself than to her, “I wonder why it is, then,” he said,  “that I can’t look away.”

His anger seemed to disappear like smoke on the wind, but she knew he’d only stuffed it down into hiding even as it grew. There was tension in the way he held his mouth, and if she could focus she was sure it’d be visible in his eyes too. And he was, again, looking at her. Unwavering in his gaze, and there was something that wasn’t cold, or calculating, or violent at all really, in that look, but confusion...curiosity, even. But beneath all of it, nervousness. Riddle was _unnerved_ by his own obsession.

That was not a comforting thought in the slightest (though, really, there were few comforting thoughts regarding Riddle). She held back a shudder, even as she met his gaze with defiance, though the room swam. Riddle was the sort who very much liked to be in control of himself, and by extension, his body as well, which was probably why he was far more deeply enraged at her curse than he would have been otherwise. For him it was something more final than death. And yet it was not the curse, in this moment, that he lashed out against. It was _her,_ at his obsession with her and _oh._ He understood, then, didn’t he, that this had been the main cause of the entire mess. Though she doubted he would take responsibility for that.

The room swam again, despite her not moving. Her heart began to race in fear at how vulnerable she was. She couldn’t panic, though the fact that she was in no position to be able to defend herself or flee while he literally towered over her was enough to make her want to scream.

“I don’t understand you,” Riddle admitted finally, leaning away as his expression went flat. “You are so very bent on your own survival and yet you run at an instant without thought, without care, to the point where you place yourself in a potentially life threatening situation _by your own move._ And yet you’re so smart at other times.” And here he changed the subject, too discomforted at whatever thoughts flitted about inside his skull to continue.

Merlin, but it was cold. She couldn’t quite prevent her teeth from chattering, and shivers tore through her, stronger with every passing minute.

“Has it ever occured to you that understanding me is really none of your concern?” she asked, and then she went bitter. “No, I don’t think it has. And even if the thought did arise, it’d seem foreign and strange to you.”

“You are, ever, a contradiction,” Riddle noted, avoiding remarking on her last observation. “Really, I very much would like to know why my hate is not enough to make you my enemy.”

She blinked at him, not sure if she’d heard that right. “What?”

“Your foe glass. You were almost entirely absent from it,” he said, leaning down until he was bare inches away. Only her pride kept her from backing away from him at his proximity. “And a curse isn’t enough to make that change, on its own. So what is it then, Granger? Why are you not among my enemies?”

She wondered where he got a foe glass, until it hit her. “You searched my room, you little guttersnipe,” she hissed, trying to sit up and somewhat succeeding, her face red in fury.

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” he said flatly. “Your brain running at half capacity along with your sense of self-preservation?”

She almost snapped out that her brain felt like it was spinning, so of course she wasn’t as fast on the uptake, but she bit it back. She wouldn’t give that away until it was blatantly obvious (though it sadly probably was anyway). “You have stooped to a whole new level in your disturbing behavior. I’m sure you’re the type that likes to take tokens,  though there was nothing there of interest you’d take, most likely."

“A trait not solely shared by myself,” he said, stepping back and seating himself beside her. “You collect their wands...I wonder, if there’s anything else you take, along with that,” he murmured, and he was close enough to see that his expression stated just how much he wanted to know.

“I collect wands because killing the owner means usually the wand becomes your own. I can’t afford to be wandless. Best to have backups,” she said, not answering his question. She did have collections of other things (well, she’d thrown them out because they were horrifying, but she’d had them once), but she wouldn’t share them with Riddle.

His lips curved into a nasty little smile, and he said nothing further.

She hated him. She hated him _so much_ and he was sitting beside her and she’d make him move. She’d make him go away. She was dizzy and not in the best state of mind, so perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, but it pleased the vindictive part of her. She put on the dead mask--it was easy, because she hated what she’d done before and to put away the emotions was easier when wearing. He needed to be aware of the power she had over him, though she’d never use it. He needed to know that she was a threat and she could hurt him. “Once upon a time, I collected a finger for each time someone touched me. Considering your transgressions, I ought to take both your hands. But I’d let it go and just take your ring finger instead,” she said quietly. Let Riddle absorb _that._

His lips parted in shock, and his eyes widened. She had struck Tom Marvolo Riddle silent, and she knew her false threat had struck home. The dead face was still there, because she hated remembering that she’d had to protect herself by planning permanent maiming, but it broke into a small smile.

“You’re lying.” It left him in but the barest whisper, small and soft.

Her eyes widened, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She hadn’t lied. What did he mean?

“Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying, I did take--”

“You are,” he interrupted. “You’re lying about the second part. You wouldn’t take it.”

“ _I am not_ ,” she repeated forcefully. Damn, how had he known? _Why?_

“You are, I can taste it,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t hurt me for the ring.”

“...That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she stated flatly, trying to divert his attention. “It’s like you’re part animal.”

“But why wouldn’t you take it, or try to?” he asked, ignoring her comment.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for anything, Riddle,” she said angrily.

“You aren’t in the reflection of the foe glass. You wouldn’t hurt me to take the ring--actually wouldn’t try to take it at all. _Why the bloody hell not?_ **”** he demanded, sounding frustrated and angry.

“I don’t owe you _any_ answers, Riddle!” she snapped, “And _get away from me._ **”**

“You cursed me. You put me in a position to potentially be your _slave_ , and have wounded me repeatedly and with great feeling. You must think I’m a fool to not press you for answers as to why we aren’t enemies, _Hermione_ ,” Riddle hissed back. He didn’t budge an inch, which infuriated her.

“Who told you that you could call me by my first name, Riddle? We are neither friends nor acquaintances.”

“But we’re not enemies,” he said, sounding equal parts angry and confused.

Merlin but there was something so very, very wrong with him. It was glaringly obvious, just speaking with him in this moment, stilted and weak as that dialogue was. He had switched strong emotional responses on a dime repeatedly in a span of mere minutes (several times, really). And Morgana help her, she was exhausted. She could barely keep herself coherent. It was getting harder and harder by the minute. She wasn’t up to dealing with a madman.

 _Current goals are get up, get out of here, lose him_ , she decided.

“You’re _my_ enemy, so the point is moot,” she said, slowly getting up and weakly attempting to move away from him. Crookshanks, who’d been very quiet--she’d thought he’d been asleep--began circling around her, meowing.

Riddle’s eyes followed her as she rose. “Then why am I your enemy...but you aren’t mine?”

“Regardless of whatever the foe glass says, Riddle, I will do _whatever it takes_ to survive. I would suggest you remember that before you make foolish decisions,” she said angrily, but it didn’t come out strong as she would have liked. Merlin, black spots danced as she tried to steady herself.

Shit.

“But I _know that!"_ he said, frustrated. “And yet you aren’t _there!_ Barely a shade!”

Hermione didn’t answer, just reached out blindly for the wall, her other hand covering her eyes. Crookshanks’ obvious concerned meows sounded so very far away.

She felt herself falling to the floor, and the world went black.

* * *

 

Hermione felt herself slowly swimming back up to consciousness with some sense of discontent. She’d been upset before, she thought, though why evaded her momentarily, and she didn’t want to wake up again. She was bouncing, limbs and head lolling in arms tightly curled beneath her back and legs as someone carried her.

The halls seemed to blend for a time, before they differentiated into almost-familiar surroundings, and she realized she was on the floor just below the infirmary, and whoever was holding her--though it was probably safe to say it was Riddle--was beginning to climb the stairs.

She was vividly reminded of when she’d passed out at the Ministry upon first arriving, waking up with the white walls of St. Mungo’s.

She gasped and began struggling.

“Hermione?” she heard, and they slowed down to a stop, Riddle leaning heavily against the wall next to the stairway.

“Not St. Mungo’s,” she said. She sounded far away. “Too many spies.”

“Lucas, then.” They started moving again, and she faded out again.  

* * *

 

“--obviously hasn’t been eating, she picks at her food like a stubborn three-year-old and eats half as much, so stupid--”

“Tom, _enough!”_

“And she’s not sleeping. Just wanders around all night in the halls--”

“ _TOM!”_ Abbott’s voice snapped, “You’re rambling and it’s distracting me! Stop it and let me do my bloody job!”

Riddle shut up, but she thought she heard him pacing. “Make him stop,” she said, annoyed at the sound, though probably no one was close enough to hear. Particularly, as the intended words came out as little more than a dry croak. She opened her eyes, and gasped.

The ceiling was _covered_ in wards and spells of every color, and she felt them everywhere. They faded in and out, but they were beautiful. Hazy, she reached out and they wrapped around her. She had been thinking of how tired she was, and she felt the surface she’d been laying on turn into a bed. Her _old_ bed, from home, judging by the feel of the comforter.

“What the _hell_ is she doing?”

“I think she’s delirious. Miss Granger, can you hear me? Miss--Merlin’s saggy left ballsack,” Abbott swore.

“I’m not delirious,” she stated flatly. “I can see the wards and magic. Where are we?”

“Brilliant,” Riddle breathed, that mixture of possessive pride back in his voice again. “We’re in the Come-and-Go room, it changes to fit the needs of its occupants...typically externally, before entry.”

“It conjures based on mental images,” she realized, unintentionally saying it aloud and immediately wishing she could think more clearly. But instead she grabbed her covers and looked at them both. Merlin, even the stain she’d made a few years back from spilling hot chocolate was there.

“If you two are both done being _completely fucking insane,”_ Abbott interrupted, “Tom, out. Go get the things on this list,” he said shortly, thrusting a scrap of parchment into Riddle’s hands and herding him toward the door. Before Riddle could open his mouth to protest, Abbott cut him off. “No. Out. Now. My patient, my rules.”

Riddle radiated fury, then frustration, and she childishly grabbed the top cover and hid under it. She couldn’t handle this right now. She couldn’t handle _him_ right now. His changes in emotion were dizzying, and she had enough of that on her own.

“Lucas, I will n--”

“You’re making my patient unwell,” said Abbott flatly, “and I will forcefully boot you out if need me. _Leave._ **”**

There was silence, then the click of shoes on the floor.

“He’ll almost slam it,” she said hazily, “then decide it’s childish at the last second.” And, sure enough, the door looked like it was going to slam shut, and at the last minute Riddle stopped its trajectory and closed it quietly. _Such a prima donna,_ she thought, and almost laughed.

Morgana help her, she was completely out of it. With that thought came the anxiety that she always had when she was vulnerable and defenseless.

"I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or horrified that you know him that well within a week," Lucas noted, and she realized he was running diagnostics over her while in a nearby chair.

"He doesn't exactly hide it," she said, tired but wary. She felt the lightest dip of the bedsheets as soft, fuzzy paws padded over and Crookshanks proceeded to lie down on her stomach. She felt the pervading comfort that came from being near one’s familiar, and she knew she was quite a bit safer in Crookshanks’ presence.

“Actually, he does,” Lucas said softly, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he delicately sat in a chair beside her bed. “I only know well enough to predict that because I’ve been around him for six years and he relaxes a bit with me. But enough about Tom. How about we have a chat for a bit, yeah?”

Her face went blank as she remembered the Aurors, Healers at St. Mungo’s, and even her own relatives starting this same conversation in the same way. Always invasive, unwanted questions that she was not willing to answer.  
  
“Do you have a favorite food?” Abbott asked, flicking his wand and casting another diagnostic spell. “Mine’s lasagna.”

She hadn’t expected that. Most of the healers had directly asked the most uncomfortable questions. However, Edmina and Redge had started out conversations this way in trying to figure out what happened. But Abbott was Riddle’s second-in-command of whatever group he was running, not a relative who ultimately had her best interest at heart. No, Abbott was Riddle’s, through and through. And she had no doubt he was doing this to attempt to lull her into a false sense of security.

“Shepard’s pie,” she replied blankly. Or, well, it _had_ been her favorite food. Now the thought of food made her queasy.  

“Shepherd's pie is pretty good,” he agreed. “I always liked steak and kidney pie, myself. Wish they served it up more at the school, really. Not that the elves don’t do a fantastic job with the daily fare,” he said, another diagnostic charm flaring above her. “But I tend to stick with what I like most though...nasty habit, really, though I do try to stay healthy despite all the heavy foods the elves lay out most days. Still, I’d go for lasagna any day,” he said, smiling a bit and leaning forward. “Do you like pumpkin juice? I’ve always found it a bit too sweet.”

She regarded him for a few seconds. He didn’t seem to have ulterior motives on the surface, but he was too close to Riddle to trust that judgement (not that she would have regardless). She’d play along as minimally as possible. The longer she stalled and didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d take the time to heal her. If she bluntly told him she wouldn’t give away what he wanted, he’d probably just leave. “I’ll drink it,” she finally replied, not really answering his question.

“So you’ll drink it, but you don’t particularly care for it,” he noted, a hint of a smile quirking his lips. “Anything you do like?”

“Coffee.”

“You’re going to have to ask special for that if you ever eat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall,” he said, amused. “They don’t serve anything that’s specifically ‘muggle.’ Coffee’s good though. Black, or with sugar or cream?”

"I...will drink it both ways," she said, a momentary pause because, before everything, she'd been picky about he she liked her coffee. After being in St. Mungo's, she hadn't even bothered and had just drunk it straight.

“But which one do you prefer?” Abbott asked, smiling a bit.

“I don’t know,” she said, pushing the mask on so tightly that it was like she'd sewn it on.

The tentative smile melted from Abbott’s face, slowly. “...Well, maybe you’ll figure that out sometime, yeah?” he suggested, pausing in his spellcasting and lowering his wand to lie in his lap. “Is that a bit better?” he questioned, his voice soft.

Once he finished the spell she felt less dizzy, though still exhausted. “Yes,” she admitted.

“That’s good,” Abbott said, opening up the heavy black bag that he’d set beside him on the floor earlier. She slowly sat up, carefully gripping the pale ward strings and making some pillows to sit against. Abbott blinked and looked back to her, bag forgotten. “How did you do that?”

“I already said I just get the wards.”

“...You can actually see them?” Abbott said, shock written all over his face.

“What, you thought _Riddle_ would do anything to give me any remote comfort?” she said, snorting in amusement.

“No, I just...I didn’t know you could see them. I can’t,” he admitted honestly.

“Most can’t,” she said, not wanting to give away anything further. Technically, she felt them a lot more than she saw them. She could only see the wards clearly here because they were powerful, and numerous. Though they were clearly protected from view from the outside, or she would have noticed them while wandering the castle.

Abbott looked at her carefully for a moment, before turning back to his bag and reaching inside, his arm disappearing up to the shoulder as he fished about. Her wand had been placed on the bed. She reached for it as soon as he went into his bag and pointed at him. She had no idea what he was getting out, and she’d be damned if he’d catch her unaware.

Abbott froze, remaining stalk-still. “Miss Granger, can I help you?”

“What are you getting?” she asked calmly...or at least, she thought it was calm, but there was the slightest tremor.

“I’m getting my advanced potions guide and a quill,” he said slowly, unmoving. “Is that alright?”

It took her a moment to reign in her emotions, and she nodded, carefully lowering her wand. However, it was in a position that she could aim it back up with one movement of her arm.

Abbott fished around for a moment in his bag, before withdrawing a well-worn potions book that clearly wasn’t the one on the school curriculum, with numerous papers sticking out of it haphazardly here and there. He took his time in taking it out, setting it upon the table and turning through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small booklet and began making quick, sharp notations upon a blank page.

She watched him, both out of having nothing else to do and because of her mistrust of him. She hadn’t been in a state to notice it before, but it was clear that Abbott was a very efficient and talented healer. “What are you writing?” she asked after a few minutes had passed, unable to keep her silence any longer.

“I’m taking down the basic directions for a potion that will help prevent any further instances of fainting or dizziness,” Abbott responded, glancing up momentarily before returning to his notations.

“Are you modifying a Pepper Up Potion or a Stabilizing Draught?”

“I would suggest two potions actually, and yes, one of them is a Stabilizing Draught. I am modifying the second one. The Stabilizing Draught would be a single dose taken today, but the second you will need to continue to take daily for a week at the very least in a slightly diluted form.”

“But it usually takes at least twelve hours to brew one, unless you’re replacing nettle with ginger? And what is the second potion?”

“I have one pre-prepared. You wouldn’t believe the number of students who get so caught-up in their work that they forget to eat or sleep, particularly in Ravenclaw. The second, though, I’ll be brewing today. I’m sure you’ve taken nutritive potion before, considering your state and that Tom mentioned you’d been hospitalized for a time. I think it would be best, if you continued to take it, since you clearly have not recovered your strength or health since your arrival in Britain.”

Did she have the energy to check the potions? She figured she could identify it based on it’s smell and texture, but she really preferred magically making sure there was nothing untoward in anything she took. And that applied doubly so to anything associated with Riddle, or any of his followers.

“If it helps, you can watch me while I brew it,” Abbott suggested, interrupting her thoughts.

Her mask slipped just the barest amount in her surprise, before she managed to return her face to her proper expression. She wouldn’t have assumed that any of Riddle’s people would offer such a gesture. Clearly Abbott was quite smart, in recognizing her reluctance. However, if he thought this was enough to make her trust him, then he was mistaken. It was very easy to give minor concessions in an attempt to gain larger ones. “I will,” she said quietly.

Abbott gave a small smile, and scooted the chair over a bit closer to the bed, taking his booklet with him and holding it open to her. “You have some experience with healing, yes? You did a brilliant job the other night.”

“A little bit,” she said, ignoring the compliment and looking over his modifications for any potential issues. She wasn’t as dizzy, and she was relieved that she could focus more. Or at least as much as her exhaustion would allow her to.

“This is a modified nutritive potion,” Abbott explained. “Your body is weak because you’re severely malnourished, and on top of that you are physically and magically exhausted. One on it’s own was enough to make you pass out, I’m surprised you made it as far as Tom said you did.”

She shrugged lightly. “I get through worse,” she said, still more focused on checking the two recipes. She didn’t see anything amiss or that could go wrong from combining the two however, and nothing in his modifications seemed dangerous.

“That’s...unfortunate,” Abbott said after a moment, “but being in full health in your position is important. If you continue not to eat properly then it could easily kill you,” he explained, his tone serious. “Regardless of whether you’ve been through worse, it is neither healthy nor safe for you to be like this.”

She stiffened before she could stop himself at the mention of about her not eating, and she tried to distract him from having seen it by passing back the notebooks.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Miss Granger. I should be taking this information to Madam Kleese,” Abbott said calmly, “but I won’t, as long as you try and work to recover your strength. If you get any worse though, I will be required by the oath I took as her apprentice to make sure that you are getting the medical treatment you need. It would be unethical of me as both a healer and an apprentice to do otherwise.”

“Then you’d condemn me to death,” she said flatly.

Abbott blinked. “How so?”

“St. Mungo’s is open to visitors and people who come and go. Grindelwald’s people get in easily.”

“Oh. _Oh,”_ Abbott whispered. “Do you have an auror following your case then, that you could speak with to negotiate? If they can provide reasonable evidence that Mungo’s is unsafe then a healer could be brought directly to the castle to see to you.”

That was the most intelligent thing anyone had ever suggested regarding her health, and she was annoyed to realize that all the fight that had gone on back and forth about her staying or leaving the hospital could have been avoided. “I do, but I would rather not risk it if at all possible.”

“If you prefer someone with more qualified experience treat you, then that is an option,” Abbott noted. “But otherwise, I will do my best to see that you are recovering.”

It was not comforting for her to realize she trusted Riddle’s closest person to be her healer more than she did the neutral parties of St. Mungo’s. Still, at least Abbott saw that the Grindelwald situation was important enough to actually be a concern. Then again, with Riddle’s neck on the line as much as hers, she had no doubt that made the situation much more real to him.

“What can I do to make this better for you?” Abbott asked, breaking the silence.

She picked up on his meaning quickly. “It’s nothing to be concerned with,” she said blandly.

“But I am concerned,” he said insistently, leaning forward just the barest amount in his seat, “You are unwell, and you need proper treatment. There’s only so much I can do on my own and if you deteriorate any further from your current condition, without prior arrangement you could end up in Mungo’s again, and in danger as a result.”

She leaned back, and the grip on her wand tightened. “I will see about my arrangements,” she said tightly.

Abbott immediately leaned away, obviously sensing her discomfort. “Sorry.”

She sighed, frustrated and annoyed at this game. Utterly exhausted, she gave up all pretense. “You are Riddle’s closest person. I am as aware as you are of why you are even bothering to take care of me. But trust is not required, nor will it be given, and we can stop this dance now.”

“I am ‘bothering’ to take care of you because I took an oath,” Abbott said, his expression morphing from concern to an intense, serious look she hadn’t quite expected from him. “I’m a healer, I will always be a healer, and a healer is expected to take care of those who need aid regardless of any bias. Yes, you hurt Tom, but he also hurt you. And whether I am his friend doesn’t matter right now. You are sick, you need help, and I will give it no matter what. If he is the root of the issue, then I will do what I can to alleviate that, but Tom is an entity unto himself and he doesn’t listen to me. Maybe there isn’t a lot I can do about this complete mess you’ve both gotten into, but I will help you if I can. I am not taking sides in this issue.”

“And you expect me to believe that a nonbinding, professional oath should be the basis for me trusting you? This whole conversation has been you trying to draw me out into such a state, and I am not sure if you think me easily manipulated or stupid.”

“I don’t expect you to trust me, Miss Granger,” Abbott said calmly. “But I want you to know my motivations for working to improve your health are not just because Tom brought it to my attention or asked me to. My conversation was meant to help you calm down a bit as you were clearly frightened, wary, and reluctant to speak on the subject. Would you have even spoken to me at all, if I had dove in immediately in discussing your medical history and your current physical state?" 

“Nothing you learned wasn’t anything I wouldn’t admit to anyone.”

“I know,” Abbott said, inclining his head. “I didn’t expect anything else. I’m not spying for Tom, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said shortly, his expression discontent. “But I doubt you’ll believe me simply saying that. I’m not going to push the matter. I neither expect you to trust me nor divulge any secrets or personal information in anything but a medical standpoint. I simply took stock of your current physical condition, and am working to improve it, if you will let me.”

“If I hadn’t intended to let you heal me, I would have left ten minutes ago, crawling or otherwise.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Abbott said simply, rubbing at his temples and allowing his eyes to drift shut for a moment.

She leaned back further against the pillows, sensing a crack in his healer’s calm and finding comfort in that. Him being so constantly calm made her defensive, because it meant he was hiding. Now though, she could see that was a facade, to some degree. Yes, he was observing the situation clinically with a healer’s gaze, but now she could see that there were hints of frustration, exhaustion, and a sullen state of mind beneath the previously seemingly-unshakable calm.

After a time, Abbott broke the silence once more. “I’m going to give you a Stabilizing draught, and a daily dose of nutritive potion. I’d like you to make sure that you are eating at least twice a day, and eat until you are full. Nutritive potion alone will not keep you healthy, you have to actively work to make sure you are taking in enough food to sustain you on a daily basis.”

Hermione wasn’t aware when her fingers began playing with the pillow. She hated discussing food. The thought of eating made her anxious, always, and being told to do so made it even worse.

“Is there a problem?” Abbott asked softly, eyes dropping to her hand before returning to her face. “You seem anxious at every mention of food.”

“I’m just fidgeting,” she said, putting on a mask of confusion at why he would read so much into it.

Abbott closed his booklet and set it aside, clasping his hands in his lap. “Don’t try to pull that with me. I’ve lived with Tom for six years, I can tell when someone is masking a lie easily enough and that was painfully obvious.”

“My apologies, I’ll just remain silent rather than give a false answer.”

Abbott sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Miss Granger, I can only help if you let me. Otherwise, this is going to a professional. Either way, Tom should be back soon with the food I requested and we can eat a bit before I start brewing.”

Eating with Riddle _and_ Abbott. How wonderful.

As if summoned, the door opened and Riddle came in, looking mutinous. Clearly he didn’t like being relegated to the role of a delivery boy, and she sat back in the pillows further, glad at the slight rise in her mood at seeing it.

“Here,” he said shortly, dropping a heavy bag on the table. The sound of dishes inside clanking against one another met her ears. There were quite a few, and her stomach dropped in dread.

“Thank you,” Lucas said, his words curt as he opened the bag and began setting out plates, silverware, and two porcelain dishes  full of steaming hot food, one with what appeared to be some sort of vegetable stew, and the other with sliced beef and creamy mashed potatoes.

Heavy food. She had used to like the taste of foods like that but now they just sat on her stomach like a weight.

“Only eat what you can,” Abbott said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m not going to push you.”

“And she’ll eat as much as a toddler and cut up her food to make it seem like she eats more,” said Riddle.

Abbott promptly stood from his chair, facing Tom, grabbed his arm and hauled him across the room, casting a silencing spell once they were a short distance away and proceeding to angrily lecture him beneath it. Riddle’s expression remained carefully blank, but his hands were clenched at his sides.

However, she was distracted when she felt something jump on the bed. She glanced over quickly, but her wariness died immediately upon seeing that it was Crookshanks. Getting an idea, she gestured for Crookshanks to come over, and he happily settled in her lap. She petted him, and felt that small core of magic that lay within her kneazle, allowing him to communicate and understand her, among other small bits of magic. She carefully tapped into the magic and picked apart the muffling spell a hair, so that she could hear what was going on without giving away it had been opened.

“I don’t see what the problem if--”  
  
“You are _not_ helping! You are baiting her, and you pinching at her eating habits is only making this more difficult. If you don’t stop then I am tossing you out on your bloody arse. She is _my_ bloody patient and you are part of the _fucking problem!_ **”** Lucas snapped, gesturing angrily.

“Part of the problem? I just ran an errand to get her bloody food, brought her in here when she passed out--”

“I don’t fucking care! You are upsetting her and making her reluctant to talk to me. Oh yes, how very _grand_ and fucking _magnanimous_ of a gesture of you to act like a decent fucking human being for once when it comes to her and try to help her, now maybe you can _keep up_ that act for a bit and do some good for once instead of actively working to tear her to shreds, mm? You picking at her eating is meant to _sting,_ and serves no positive purpose, and I won’t have it,” Abbott said sharply.

“Yes, let’s just let her starve herself to death if she doesn’t die from her own stupidity first.”

“Do you think that you’re helping, by heckling her about her eating habits?” Abbott asked, his voice low, “Because I can assure you by the way she flinched when you said that, you are doing absolutely no good whatsoever. This is a delicate situation, and you are treating it with all the delicacy of a fucking sledgehammer.”

“The only way to get her to do anything is to goad her into it. She’s abhorrently lacking in self-preservation. Not eating, not sleeping, trying to use her magic when she’s completely drained. She doesn’t even--”

“Your psycho-obsessive tendencies are showing,” Abbott said flatly, fixing Riddle with a blank stare.

Riddle went silent, and while his facial expression never changed his whole body went rigid.

“You follow her enough to know when she sleeps. You watch and observe how much she eats. You know her patterns of movement, you keep track of her magical capacity. You are acting in a controlling, unhealthily infatuated manner and your actions are bordering on perfectly mirroring those that got you into this mess in the first place. That’s sick, Tom. And I’m not going to let you try and control her like that. It’s not good for either of you.”   

“She _can’t die_ , Lucas,” he hissed, and the intensity of his words was alarming.

“I know. But you breaking into this and treating it viciously is only going to make it more dangerous, Tom. She’s scared of you, and when Granger’s scared she has repeatedly proven that she will lash out as brutally and violently as she is capable, and that isn’t going to help anyone. Let me do my job, and you will do yours.”

Riddle snorted. “Everyone only sees the fear. There’s a lot more there.”

“Obsessive,” Abbott repeated. Riddle’s hands clenched until his knuckles went white. “You know, it’s funny. She’s revealed an almost frightening understanding of you, to the point where she can predict your moves with perfect accuracy, and only after a week. She knew you’d break into her room, so she ran. She knew you’d come after her, so she ran outside rather than in the castle, where you could easily locate her. She even knew you’d almost slam the door on the way out and then decide that such behavior was beneath you. And that knowledge, that understanding, does not come from obsession. That comes from someone who feels that knowing those sorts of things are the only things that will allow them to survive, and if there is anything I have seen, it is that Granger is willing to go to terrifying lengths to ensure her survival. So don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m seeing, Tom. I’m not a fucking idiot and neither of you are being subtle or careful about this whatsoever. You are fixing her with your complete, undivided attention. And that would be terrifying, even to me. Especially with the results you’ve shown come of that.”

“How can you act like she’s completely blameless? _I’m under a fucking slave curse_.”

“She is not completely blameless, but _you got yourself into this_ fucking _mess, Tom!_ And yes, I’m scared for you. I’m scared _of_ you just as much, too,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I don’t want that, but there it is. She’s dangerous. She’s strong, and she’s ruthless, and she’s capable of crushing you if you give her a good reason. So _don’t give her a bloody fucking reason._ Do what you have to, and we will resolve this eventually, but tearing into her every chance you get is only going to get you hurt further. What happens if something you say or do results in her getting hurt, huh? Or what if I have to defend you from her attacking you, because of something _you did?_ I can’t support you in this Tom, not in this behavior because you are _purposely endangering yourself just to feel like you’ve one-upped her once or twice._ These are not the actions of someone who is in control of themselves, Tom.”

Riddle took a deep breath, his blank expression cracking to reveal intense frustration. “I know. Damn it, I know. But she’s just so...”

“Then step back,” Abbott said, his expression softening. “Do something else for a while. Stay nearby, but don’t loom over her at every moment. Do what you need to, keep your distance, and keep busy otherwise until you are back to yourself. I don’t know what I can say to help with this, Tom, because it’s all up here,” he said, tapping his head.

“This isn’t going to end,” he said. “I just have to figure out what to do."

“About what? The curse?”

“No, not focusing on her all the time.”

Abbott’s expression broke, and he took a wet, shaky breath. “Then there is nothing I can do except stand between you and her when your obsession becomes physically and emotionally dangerous to you both, and hope that I am not killed in the crossfire.” Abbott turned away, surreptitiously wiping his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Alright. Tom, I know you hate it but I need you to do a couple more things for me, after we eat. I’ll tell you in a few minutes,” he finished, hurriedly walking away and returning to the table as he cancelled the remainder of the spell.

Lucas Abbott quickly began setting out the dishes and spooning out portions onto the plates, notably giving her less than half the amount he served for himself and Tom. “See if you can finish at least half of that, alright?” he said shakily, “if you can’t it’s alright. After we eat I’ll start in on brewing.”

Hermione had no idea what to do. She felt very uncomfortable, so she just took her plate and nodded, though she felt green looking at all that food. She didn’t look at them as she picked at the stew.

Riddle was terrifying, that much was certain. But Abbott seemed to disapprove and be concerned about Riddle’s obsession with her, and the potential prospect of someone being a buffer was a huge relief. However, Abbott was clearly in love with Riddle and thus he might not be as good as a buffer as he’d like (not to mention Riddle could easily intimidate him away). But it was a possibility.

She felt Riddle and Abbott occasionally look at her, but she didn’t look up from her food. She hated being watched while she ate, because it’d happened so often in the hospital. She mechanically ate, each bite heavy and hard to swallow.   

The noise of forks scraping on plates was added to the few sounds in the room as Abbott reopened his booklet and scribbled out a list, tearing the page out and pushing it across the table to Tom. “Can you get ahold of these items for me, Tom?”

She heard Riddle pick up the paper and the sound of a plate being set down. He stood up and left the room without a word, though that didn’t surprise her. He was undoubtedly annoyed at Abbott, and he tended to hide that behind a placid, empty expression.

Dip spoon into stew. Insert into mouth. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

“Have you taken nutritive potion before?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Rosenburg’s Brew, Falantine Type, and Severin Syrup. There were probably others but I identified those.”

Abbott was silent for a moment, before he murmured, “That’s quite the regimen. I’m assuming this was during your hospitalization at some point?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Alright, well. I’m not going to have you on such a strict regimen as that. Forcing that many nutritive potions down someone’s throat is dangerous and I would think, only necessary in extreme situations.”

“It was when I first arrived,” she said.

Abbott nodded slowly. “I suspected as much. How long ago was this?”

She stirred around the stew. The cotton was back, and her mouth went dry. Food was now out of the question. She didn’t like talking about her stay at all, or how long she’d been there.

“We can wait on the questions, if it’s too much right now,” Abbott’s voice came softly, interrupting her thoughts and leading her to finally look up at him.

She nodded, and put the food back on the nearby table.

Abbott glanced to her barely-touched plate, then back to her, but said nothing. “Are you averse to the idea of eating in the Great Hall?” he asked, after a beat of silence.

She swallowed twice, and still couldn’t get anything out.

“No need to answer that, then,” Abbott said gently. “I’m assuming you are a bit anxious, about being in crowded places?”

“They’re dangerous,” she managed.

Abbott nodded slowly, agreeing. “Yes, they are. This is a school though, and most people here are probably not going to try and hurt you. If you are feeling up to it, I think you should try and eat in the Great Hall at least once every few days.

She nodded, and though she agreed _most_ people wouldn’t attempt to hurt her, there were undoubtedly people that would want to. The fact that they probably didn’t have the skills to do so was not the point. And she would have to show up probably more than that to keep the professors from getting suspicious.

“If Tom was accurate in his...description of your eating habits,” Abbott said after a moment, “then Madam Kleese has probably already noticed something is amiss.”

Well, that would be a problem.

“If she takes it into her own hands, then there is probably only so much that I can do on the matter,” Abbott said, pushing his plate aside.

“I’ll talk with Moody,” she said, reaching out and petting Crookshanks, who had scooted over when she’d grabbed her food.

Abbott blinked. “Moody? As in Padraic Moody, vice-chair of the Auror Department?”

“Yes. He’s in charge of my case,” she stated flatly.

“Damn,” Abbott murmured. “Well at least you’re certainly in good hands. If he understands the situation, then he’ll certainly see to it that your needs are met.”

“You know him?” she asked. She needed to see how close he was to him. She didn’t see Moody as the type to divulge intimate details of her case (though he didn’t know much) but just in case.

“Of course, he’s legendary! He should be Head of the Department, but my father says he turned it down because it would ‘hinder his work’.”

“Sounds like something he’d do,” she said, the briefest, smallest smile coming to her face. It was easier now that the conversation wasn’t about her.

“But you’ll need to contact him soon--I’d recommend by tomorrow morning at the latest, to be entirely honest. Madam Kleese has had a whole week of eating at the same table as you for meals and if someone can’t run interference she will act on that knowledge.” Abbott leaned back in his chair.

“I can reach him quickly.” Moody always answered her owls quickly.

“Good,” Abbott said, nodding. “You’ll need to. If Madam Kleese checks you out and finds out your current condition, there is no question that she will want to send you back to Mungo’s immediately.”

All she did was stare dully at her lap.

However, their conversation was cut short when Riddle returned with the list of items Abbott had requested. She nearly sighed aloud. Wonderful, now Riddle wouldn’t leave.

He unceremoniously sat the cauldron and supplies in front of Abbott. “Anymore errands?” he asked blandly.

“Thank you,” Abbott said shortly. “And yes, one. Go back to the dorms and go to sleep. You’re dead on your feet.”

Riddle frowned. “I’m fine.”

“You are not. You didn’t even attend class. Go to bed,” Abbott said flatly, facing Riddle as he stood, and crossing his arms.

Riddle glanced over to her, but he didn’t say anything. The fact that he’d skipped to go looking for her was unspoken. She resisted the urge to childishly throw her pillow at him. _Listen to Abbott!_

“Tom,” Abbott said, his voice softening, “Please. It will do you some good.”

Riddle sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. Don’t let her wander around,” he said, his head gesturing to her. Not letting anyone reply, he left the room.

Abbott sat, for a minute, in silence. Then, slowly, he put his head down on the table, cradled in his arms.

She agreed with the sentiment behind the gesture, though she was mainly relieved that Riddle was gone. Hermione had no doubt in her mind that, if need be, she could take care of Abbott if he became dangerous.

He stayed like that for a full minute, before with a sharp intake of air, he lifted his head and pulled himself out of the chair, going about setting out and organizing the materials for the modified nutritive potion with the speed and careful efficiency of someone who was deeply focusing in order to stave off unwelcome thoughts.

Hermione herself watched him put in the ingredients, identifying them absently. But now that Riddle was gone she felt tired, the panicked adrenaline his presence always induced spent. But she needed to watch Abbott put the ingredients in--

She fell asleep mid-thought, too tired to focus.

* * *

 

“Miss Granger?”

She startled awake, her hand reaching for her wand out of habit. But when she realized it was Abbott, the motion stopped.

Abbott immediately stepped back, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Sorry to wake you, but if you’re willing you should take the Stabilizing Draught, now that you’ve rested and eaten a bit.”

“Oh,” she said, internally, though, she was angry that she hadn’t stayed awake to watch him brew. She’d have to check it magically, then.

Two small cauldrons were set up, one happily bubbling away, a thick, soupy greenish color like mashed peas, the other with the flame turned down low and a slight, sparking haze rising from its surface.

The Stabalizing Draught was done, then. He had several more doses in there as well, most likely what he’d put in the infirmary. Even as she watched, Abbott began filling various vials with the contents of the second cauldron with the careful efficiency of someone who had done so many, many times before.

“How long was I asleep?”

“It’s been nine hours,” Abbott responded, corking a vial and beginning to fill another.

“...What?” she asked rhetorically, aghast.

“You certainly needed the rest,” Abbott noted, pausing momentarily to glance at her before returning to his work.

Apparently her insomniac phase had been traded out for the perpetual sleep part of the cycle. _Wonderful_ , she thought sarcastically. And she still felt like she could go back to sleep and easily rest for another nine hours, on top of that.

Abbott finished stoppering about twenty vials, before he took the last one and moved over, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Before she could say a word, he cast a very recognizable poison detection charm, which flared gold.

“All clear,” he said with a weak little smile, handing her the potion. She took it, confused at the gesture and unduly paranoid, because she knew it worked (though she usually did a few more advanced charms, but she didn’t have the magic to do them). Taking the risk, she downed the potion, though mentally tallying off the various effects of poison in her head.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, tongue sliding over her teeth in an effort to get the sharp, bitter taste from her mouth.

“I don’t think you’d have taken it otherwise,” Abbott said simply. “You wanted to watch me brew, but you slept, so you didn’t see me make it and wouldn’t have known if I put something into it.”

She nodded slowly, mistrustful despite it all. If anything, mistrustful because he expected her paranoia.

“The modified nutritive potion should be done after about three more hours on simmer. If you like, you can rest, or I can go and fetch dinner.”

Food again. She nearly groaned, but that’d give it away. She really wanted to do neither.

“Miss Granger, you do need to eat at regular intervals if you want to improve at all,” Abbott said softly.

“Dinner, I guess,” she said, realizing one way or another she’d have to eat, at least while under Abbott’s eye.

“Alright then,” Abbott said, rising from the edge of the bed and moving back to the table, re-opening his medical bag and carefully reaching in, methodically placing the filled vials inside. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said automatically, though she was actually pretty tired and weak. She felt Crookshanks stir (he’d apparently fallen asleep with her), and he crawled up on her lap and purred loudly.

“You have a very wily familiar,” he noted, a smile curving across his lips.

“Crookshanks? Yes,” she said fondly, petting her kneazle.

His smile widened, and he stirred the nutritive potion as he said, “Interesting name, but it fits him.”

“He had that name when I got him. He’d been at the store for a long time. No one wanted him because he’s looks different and isn’t the prettiest kneazle,” she said, though Crookshanks grumply meowed at her statement.

“I don’t know, the squashed face is sort of cute,” Abbott said, reaching over and scratching behind the kneazle’s ears. Crookshanks purred, nearly making the boy shake.

“He might also have been a bit picky about people attempting to adopt him,” she said, “which is strange. Since I got him, though, he’s open to being petted and likes people.”

“Really?” Abbott said, seating himself once more and proceeding to scratch the top of Crookshanks’ head. “He seems very aloof, though maybe that’s just the face,” he noted, a genuine smile crossing his lips for the first time that she’d seen that day. It seemed to brighten his whole face, and she realized that this was his normal expression. It fit too easily on his face, in sharp contrast to his demeanor over the past few days.

“Nah, he has a lot of pride too. Thinks he’s the king of kitties,” she drawled, though Crookshanks ignored her as he enjoyed being petted by Abbott.

Abbott gave a small chuckle at this, and continued to pet her kneazle. “I always get so horribly jealous that anyone with a cat as a familiar can have it in the castle,” he said, scratching under Crookshanks’ chin.

“I’m assuming your familiar doesn’t meet school guidelines,” she guessed.

“Oh, not at all. He’s a big, overly-rambunctious dog...bit of Crup in there somewhere, but can’t exactly be keeping him in the dorms. Needs to run every day. Not to mention he’s bigger than most of the students and wouldn’t understand not to knock them down and lick them to death.”

“Sounds like a dog we used to have back home. He slobbered all over everything when Vater would let him in the house,” she said, but stopped herself from continuing.

Abbott gave her a careful smile. “My father typically insists on keeping him outdoors, but he has a tendency of finding his way into the house somehow and always ends up taking up half my bed,” he admitted.

She gave a careful smile back. “He sounds sweet.” She felt a sense of pain at remembering her family, and didn’t want to talk anymore.

Abbott seemed to sense her discomfort, and stood, casting a spell on the stirring rod on the potion and carefully setting it. “I’ll be back shortly. So, is shepard’s pie alright then?” he asked. “You did say you like it.”

She did like it, but it was a very heavy food. “Eggs?” she asked carefully. They were light and settled better on her stomach, and thus were a safe food.

He paused, and glanced to her speculatively, before he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, offering a small smile before grabbing his cloak off the back of the chair and slipping from the room, leaving her alone with nothing but Crookshanks and her thoughts for company.

* * *

 

She was sleeping when Tom returned, her cat curled tightly against her side, head rested upon her arm. He somehow didn’t find it surprising that she was the type to bury herself under the covers in her slumber. It was, again, another ugly little reminder that she was fragile, beneath all the fire and steel.

He didn’t like being reminded of that.

What was the point of having a rival if they were weak? Or was she, really, a rival? He didn’t know what she was to him, thinking about it now.

He found his gaze irrevocably drawn to her still form as he slid into the seat beside the bed, glancing over to the still-boiling cauldron set upon the table before his gaze returned to the girl. Her hair frizzed out in a short, untamable mess about her head, haloing her thin face. Looking at her now, when she wasn’t active, he could easily see the tired, dark splotches beneath her eyes and how very drawn and pale she was. It was so very easy to forget. She acted so very strong for all her frailty until it was undeniable, and yet...even then, really, it went ignored more often than not.

It was amazing that she’d lasted so long at all, really. More amazing still, that she had managed in barely a week to chain him, and yet she was _barely alive._ Barely functioning.

She was infuriating, and he’d gone back to his dorm livid at both her and Lucas for kicking him out. He had fallen asleep as soon as he’d laid down, but his dreams had been haunted intermittently with hazy visions of her, and he’d woken up with her on his mind after each fitful stint of slumber he managed to catch.

Lucas was right. She was taking over his every thought, and he knew it couldn’t be blamed upon the curse--no, this had begun from the moment they had met.

It had hit him the moment she’d stopped running that first night in the halls and turned back to look at him. This girl would always be running. Always, for the rest of her life, and he would more than happily give chase the whole long way until she finally ran out of energy and he knocked her down. Or, until she turned back and went for his throat.

No, it wouldn’t be a little game of hide-and-go-seek after that, but a game of who can strike the hardest and the fastest. The thought made him smile. Yes, it’d be a fun game indeed. And he’d go to great lengths to make sure that neither Grindelwald nor any of his people would steal his rival and prey.

This curse certainly complicated things a bit. Not that he wasn’t willing to go along with its parameters to some degree as it was (no-one was allowed to hurt her but him), but the fact that he couldn’t cause her physical harm of any sort certainly put him at a disadvantage. He would be able to do little but block her retaliations. And while picking her apart mentally and emotionally would be fun, he would have to be very, very careful not to step over the edge and push her to breaking.

But now even that was complicated by the fact that she had very personal information on him, and he had no doubts that she’d use it to hurt him given the chance. Maybe not to harm him physically, judging by her absence in his foe glass, but she would certainly attack him emotionally if she felt threatened. If nothing else, she’d use it as retaliation. But the thought that, perhaps, she was emotionally incapable of causing him physical harm, now that was curious. After all, she _had_ hurt him in the past. And she’d enjoyed it, she’d reveled in it in the moment at first...but only at first. Even then, though, it had only been when she felt herself to be in the most dire of circumstances.

Not that it excused what _had_ happened down in the Chamber. The thought of it made his blood boil with rage and his stomach roil with just the slightest bit with anxiety. He very distinctly remembered her getting in his face, that too-pale face red with fury and her eyes almost manic as she’d threatened him and then pushed him back, still tied to the chair, to the floor. Other people had done similar things, once upon a time, and the thought of being having been put in that position again made him want to whip out his knife and let Granger know _exactly_ what he felt about her provocation.

But she was weak, and she couldn’t fight back, as drained as she was. And even if he could have hurt her, he had the impulse to do so _but not the desire_ to act on it. Besides, he was curious about what she was dreaming about, as her eyelids had started to move in sleep, and he would rather focus on that than on the events of the previous morning.

“Tom?”

He jolted, eyes snapping wide as he turned to face Lucas.

“Tom,” Lucas said carefully, “What are you doing here?” Even as he spoke, he slipped past, standing quite visibly between the chair he was seated in and the bed, where Hermione lay.

Tom leaned back in the chair, his eyes darting for a split second from Lucas to Hermione, who he could see again after leaning back. “I didn’t realize I’d been banned,” he drawled, “and I do have this pesky curse that binds me to make sure she’s protected.”

“Yes, but currently she’s quite safe, and you are not magically capable of protecting her anyway. You need to go and rest, Tom.” Damn, Lucas was wary of him. He wasn’t even bothering to try to hide his stiff posture and falsely bland tone of voice. Not that Lucas was very good at hiding his emotions, as it was, but this was unnatural.

“I did rest,” he pointed out. “For nearly ten hours.”

“And you’re still not recovered,” Lucas noted. “Tom, you have no real reason to be here. And especially with everything that’s happened, I don’t think you should be.”

The point hit home and stung painfully, and even the logical side of him shied away from Lucas’s words. He carefully catalogued himself in his mind to make sure that his spike of red hot irritation was not so blatantly obvious.

“It’s not healthy, Tom,” Lucas said quietly, but clearly by the way his skin lost all color, Tom hadn’t been hiding his reactions well enough. Or it simply meant Lucas knew him so well that he knew, too, when he was hiding, which was another disquieting issue. “You need to go.”

He swallowed, and his mind did rapid-fire calculations of what exactly Lucas would probably do to remove him from this situation. If he didn’t do anything, probably not a lot, but he was well aware that even with Lucas life was a chess game. His friend was clearly wary of him being around Hermione, and he couldn’t afford anything between him and this girl. _It’s a necessity. I can’t risk a barrier because it could result in her endangerment._

He hadn’t had to do this in a while with Lucas--his friend was usually rather compliant with his schemes--but he would have to make Lucas more comfortable about this. Seem less threatening around Hermione (though he’d certainly be hard-put to do so, because she liked to pick at that part of him, that part of him that enjoyed the fight). Not enough for it to be a jarring, sudden change, but enough to calm the anxiety that Lucas had generated regarding this situation, and further, regarding him.

“Tom?” Lucas said shakily, interrupting his thoughts. He took a step back, and Tom realized his wand was nervously clenched in his hand, though it wasn’t raised. _Well, this plan is off to a bad start._

He buried his sudden rise in mood at the thought of now having a goal and plan as he rose to leave, and Hermione stirred. He didn’t even glance at Lucas, aware that he, too, was tentatively holding his wand. Honestly, did Lucas really think that he believed his bluff? Then again, Lucas drawing his wand said something else too; that he felt his safety threatened, and that of the girl lying asleep in bed behind him. And Lucas was a Hufflepuff to the core, and for all his loyalty he would most certainly side with whom he saw to be the underdog.

“You’re right,” he said, and he injected the slightest hint of anxiety into his tone. The anxiety wasn’t faked, though it was unrelated to this. “I’ll see you later on, I suppose.”

“Yes of course,” Lucas said weakly, still not giving up his grasp on his wand. “I’ll see you later.”

He normally would smile at Lucas when he made his exits, whether real or otherwise, but he didn’t then. It would be out of character. However, even focused, he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that after she’d shifted awake, Hermione had gone carefully still to avoid detection. A wise move, considering that the moments following waking from deep slumber were when one was certainly not at their most alert, but the fact that his hearing was trained on her rather than the man holding his wand in defense was disturbing.

He closed the door, carefully measuring his movements.

Tom walked aimlessly, not really paying attention to anything but his own thoughts.

Lucas had turned on him, and nearly raised his wand against him. One part of him hissed in anger at the thought of Lucas resisting, even thinking to raise his wand against him. _How dare he? Who did he think he was?_ Another part of him, small and quiet, said that there had to be a logical reason why Lucas would stand between himself and Hermione. No matter. He had done it before, convincing people to his side, his cause, to follow his desires. It would take time of course, but he had time. Lucas would come around.

He whistled as he walked down the hall, his steps slow and unhurried.

“Ah, Tom, there you are! I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen Miss Granger recently, would you?”

He stopped whistling.


	8. Note to Our Readers

Note to our readers: Thank you so much for your support! My coauthor, Ras, has had to step down from writing. He eventually was kind enough to turn the story over to me to write so that it will not be abandoned. Temperance is going to be a series and you can find the first book, the rewriting and further writing of this story, under the title “Death and the World” by rynthewin. Thank you so much for the support and I hope you will continue to do so as I expand on this universe Ras and I created.


End file.
